


Blow the Dust from the Bones

by emjam



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Stan Pines, Body Swap, Emotional Manipulation, Filbrick Pines' Bad Parenting, Ford is Bad at Remembering to Eat, Gen, Gnomes, Happy Ending, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Minor Violence, Mullet Stan Pines, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Reunions, Rico (Gravity Falls) is mentioned, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Stan Pines-centric, Stan is Bad at Self-Respect, Stangst, The Mindscape, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, these two have a lot to learn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: Stan, alone and living out of his car, calls Ford's number for the thousandth time.But this time, Stan doesn't hang up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is from body of years by mother mother!
> 
> ever since atots aired, I had this idea in my head about stan actually having the guts to go through with that phone call we saw. so, here's the first chapter!

Looking out at the inky night beyond the street lamp and twirling around his finger a disgusting phone cord that has seen better days, Stanley Pines wondered what the fuck he was even doing out here.

It was a waste of precious quarters, he knew that. He had done this a few times before, and every time that voice answered on the other end, Stan chickened out. Too jaded and ashamed and scared to keep the call open. Maybe Ford noticed by now that he’s had an anonymous caller that was too weird to do anything but breathe awkwardly into the line. Stan took a whiff of the air around him and was glad that the sound of his voice would be the only thing sent to his brother, and not… any number of smells that were either near or on him.

One more anxious twist around the rotini-shaped phone cord, his hands yellowed beyond recognition beneath the dying lamplight. His stomach grumbled at the thought of pasta.

“Hello, Stanford Pines speaking?”

Stan’s throat tightened at the sound. It was a bit deeper and rougher than when they last saw each other - a lot can change in 8 or 9 years - but it was still him. Still Ford. If Stan tried, he could hear that voice explaining something in an excited scientific jumble Stan would never understand.

Bitterness and weariness pooled in his gut. He caught a part of the inside of his mouth between two teeth and worried it.

“Hello?” Ford said again. “If this is some sort of prank, it’s not funny. I’m quite busy -”

Fuck it. Fuck this whole thing. Stan already spent the damn quarters for this - more than once, even! The worst Ford could do was… what, hate him more than he already did? He coughed into the receiver, and remnants of the cough dragged along Stan’s throat when he spoke. “Hey. Um. It’s Stanley.”

The resulting silence unsettled his stomach more than he would care to admit. “...Stanley?”

“Yep.” This was already a lot more awkward than he could have even predicted. If he was twisting the cord before, he was clutching it in a death grip now. He’d be surprised if he didn’t break it. _Come on, Stan, you’ve done a hell of a lot worse than a simple phone call._

But nothing else had truly been on the line before. Sure, his physical well-being, but… this was more important.

“Why? I mean - what do you want?”

A faint chuckle left Stan’s dry lips. “Nice of you to assume that I’m just leeching off you, sixer.” An exasperated sigh came from the other end. Great, they had been talking for thirty seconds and Stan had already managed to fuck this up. Gotta fix this. “Sorry. What I mean is, I, I know we haven’t talked in a long time -”

“Yes, so -”

“And I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t… really need your help.”

“You call me for the first time in years and it’s to bail you out?”

“No!” Stan groaned. He had far too little sleep for this. Every blink was the beginning of unconsciousness. “I don’t need bailing out. I’m not in _jail_.” For once, at least. “I just need a place to stay for a really short while.”

“And what would I be getting out of that, Stanley?” He sounded distracted and dismissive, like he was taking some nerdy notes or something at the same time as answering a phone call. Great people skills, Ford.

Stan took a deep breath. This was the price he had to pay to get a semblance of a roof over his head for a moment. “I’ll pay rent. I’ll even buy my own food. I just gotta get away from here and you’re… the person I could go to.”

Silence again.

“Please, Ford.” Stan closed his eyes at the risk of collapsing into sleep. He swayed on his feet. A dull anger beat distantly in his heart. If he had the power, he would have never been born. “I just need a safe place for a sec. I’ll pay you back.”

He could hear the heavy consideration playing out across the line. For a moment he froze, heart stopping and sounds quieting and every little living thing out here ceasing to move.

“...I... Let me give you the address.”

It wasn’t the first time Stanley had to pretend that he wasn’t crying.

* * *

 

“Where the fuck is this place?”

He must’ve combed the entirety of Oregon twice by now. If not, it sure felt like it. This Gravity Falls that Ford supposedly lived in didn’t even show up on a map. Was Ford just fucking with him?

Just his luck, his estranged twin actually stranded him in the middle of this woody-ass state full of weird-ass animals, and he spent the last of his gas and food money to get here.

Had he passed that tree before? No, right?

Hunched over, Stan gripped the wheel of his old Diablo with a determination that only came from having nothing to lose. This was his shot, damn it. Better put in his all. The little needle on his dash was steadily climbing down to _E_ , but there had to be a new route past this bend. _Had_ to be.

The bend came and went. Nervous sweat collected on Stan’s forehead.

A new sign suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It was dusty and weather-worn, like out of a horror movie. And it read _Gravity Falls: Next Right_.

If he weren’t an atheist, he would be revelling in the generous glory of God right now. He took the right. It was the happiest and most carefree turn of a steering wheel he had ever experienced.

New town! New roads! Roads which were lined with cozy little small-town homes and family-owned businesses. The settlement’s quiet and unhappening demeanor was almost smothering in its thickness, and it made Stan somber. He slowly rolled through the cracked old streets and looked around. There was even a tiny little mom-and-pop convenience store and a diner that probably aimed to give its customers heart disease. “Holy shit, poindexter, you really settled down,” he laughed. Even though Stan’s car smelled like shit and he looked and felt like roadkill, he had the nerve to smile.

This was nothing like the fast, rough places he had been in for so long. He could stay here, maybe. Shop at that minimart for groceries, get a job at a local store. Calm his life down a bit.

He shook his head to dispel the dream. He really needed more sleep.

He kept course down the main road, keeping an eye out for the address that Ford had given him, but eventually the houses thinned out and the trees thickened in their place. Before he knew it, he was climbing up a path that was more dirt than gravel, properly entering some spooky Oregon woods.

Must’ve missed Ford’s place, which wasted precious gas. Stan huffed. Better move forward and see if there was a place to turn around.

A sickly bend brought him within sight of the peaked roof of a large shack, complete with a porch and a weathervane. It was very middle-of-the-woods mad-scientist-esque, and for a moment Stan laughed at the thought that Ford had become a sciency woodland hermit, only leaving his house to look at chemicals or some shit.

As he cruised by at five miles per hour, he caught the number on the mailbox and had to stop.

The insane scientist cabin in the woods, the one that didn’t even have a car in its driveway, was Ford’s.

Looked like sixer hadn’t really settled down after all.

His Diablo rumbled over dirt and gravel as it pulled in. Eventually, he shut her off, and the car fell silent. He pat his hands on top of the knees of his dirty jeans.

He really did not want to knock on that door.

Ford must be doing well for himself; that house was huge. It looked warm inside. It looked like it had a fridge and heating and it probably didn’t have holes in the ceiling. He pulled down the worn-out sun visor and removed from it an old picture from when they were children. After several moments of rubbing the fragile thing between his fingers, he grabbed his duffel bag and reluctantly left his beloved car for the unknown.

The porch steps barely creaked when he ascended them. Everything was strong and solid wood. Stan raised a fist and quickly knocked twice. Might as well get this part over with. He wasn’t jittery, not jittery at all. His hands shook in his pockets, but it was just ’cause it was cold out. In June.

“Coming!” Ford called out from the inside.

A wave of nausea passed through Stan. This was really happening.

A lock was undone, and then the door swung open. There was Ford. Older and with a more square jaw and a slightly different haircut.

“Stan?” Ford said.

“Who else would it be?” He mumbled.

“You look… different.”

Yeah, grosser and fatter and dirtier. “That would happen, yeah.” Stan gripped his jeans with the hands that were in his pockets. “Can I come in?”

“Oh! Sure.” Ford backed up. Stan made his way in, careful not to bump into his brother.

“So, uh, where can I put my stuff down?”

“Um…”

Stan got the impression that Ford rarely had visitors.

“Ah yes! I have a spare room somewhere. I'll show you,” his brother said. He then took off in a random direction, forcing Stan to follow. “I'm using it as storage for the moment, but there should still be room for whatever you have in that bag and the rest in your car-”

Stan rolled his eyes at the familiar babble. “I don't have anything else.”

Ford's pace faltered, but didn't stop. “What?”

“This is it.” He pulled the bag up onto his shoulder.

“Oh…” Ford didn't turn around as he continued to lead Stan through the maze that was his house. “Well, regardless, there should be enough room.”

They finally reached a door that looked like an afterthought at the end of a short hallway. Ford opened the door into a dusty room that held a couch - bed? - and a few bare furniture items. Other than that, miscellaneous knick-knacks and multiple stacks of papers and books had a home at the far end of the room. Sprawling across the floor and crumpled at some corners was a blue rug that was ugly as sin.

“Huh,” Ford muttered, as if he had forgotten what this room even looked like. “This should suffice.”

Stan hovered in the doorway. Sure, the rug was stupid, but there was so much space in here. And somewhere to sleep that wasn’t infested with bugs or shaped like the backseat of his car. This was… way too nice.

“You sure, Ford? I saw a couch in the living room…”

His brother shook his head. “This has just been here gathering dust. Besides, that couch is covered with important books at the moment. Just, uh, don't rub your feet on that carpet when you're wearing socks.”

Okay, just ignoring that. Stan wandered into the room. It had privacy and space. Dim sunlight filtered through the trees and the geometric window design to create soft shapes across the hardwood floor. He found himself frozen in place.

“Anyway, I’m going to make myself dinner. Do you…” Ford coughed. “I mean, I have some things in the fridge if you…”

“Nah, I’m good, I ate earlier.” That was a lie. Stan dropped his duffel bag at the foot of the couch. Quietly, he murmured, “...Thanks, Ford.”

Ford didn’t respond, but Stan heard the creaking of his footsteps as he walked away.

Stan sighed. Might as well find a bathroom and wash this grime off.


	2. Chapter 2

Even though the bed was way more comfortable than anything Stan had slept on in a long time, he still tossed and turned. Unspecified anxieties decided to keep his eyes open for a few hours, so he had become well-acquainted with the fancy window above his couch-bed. Eventually he fell asleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful rest.

At least when he struggled to wakefulness in the morning, his back wasn’t beaten to bits by shitty hotel mattress springs. The only thing that hurt from his pitiful sleep was his pounding head and the sting of his eyes when he blinked.

Groaning, he dragged himself up. His clothes felt gross from midnight sweat. There wasn’t anything else to wear, though - well, not anything _clean_ \- and he would have to get a job before he could buy something halfway decent. Might as well get on that.

It was frightening to move even a little in Ford’s new house. He crept slowly into the silent hallway, heart pounding for some reason. Every footstep was cautious - he wanted to touch Ford’s stuff as little as possible. Thankfully, he’d become somewhat light on his feet in the past few years.

“Ford?” He called, testing the waters. No response.

Further down the hallway, a door was cracked open. Peeking in, Stan caught a glimpse of Ford slumped over a mountain of papers on a desk. He cradled his head in his arms and breathed deeply in sleep. It was once a familiar sight, and now completely estranged from Stan. Heart clenching, Stan backed off and headed to the kitchen. Maybe he could make the nerd breakfast.

This was for Ford, but Stan had to admit that he was hungry too. In a moment of indulgence he imagined sitting down with Ford and eating breakfast together, chatting about what they’ve been up to all this time. It was far-fetched, but the idea pushed him into the kitchen with newfound vigor.

He pulled the fridge open with a determined tug and a loud _clunk_.

It was empty.

And not empty as in “bare-bones but workable,” empty as in _empty_. The only thing sitting on the wire racks was an old, old carton of orange juice. Trying the freezer, a similar situation greeted him. There was a frozen bag of peas and that was it. Whatever Ford had used to make himself dinner last night, it was gone now. Or maybe he never even had dinner in the first place.

Stan didn’t think he would still be forcing his dumb brother to eat after a few distanced years, but here they were. He didn’t have money, but maybe he could swipe something from a grocery store. It wouldn’t be the best impression he could give this little town, but it might be necessary.

“Stanley, what are you doing?”

Jumping reflexively, Stan closed the fridge and turned around. Ford was in the kitchen doorway, stubble darkening his face and exhaustion coloring the skin beneath his eyes. Looked like he hadn’t slept well either. Stan automatically crossed his arms. “Ford, your fridge is totally empty.”

“Well, sorry that I can’t feed you right now.” Ford immediately jumped to cold defensiveness.

“Wha- I was gonna try to make you breakfast!”

“You can cook?” Ford raised a deprecating eyebrow.

Yes, a bit, after leaving home. It was kind of hard to learn how when their dad considered it a strictly feminine activity that wasn’t worth learning for a man. The shame that went into teaching himself cooking as a necessity all on his own, feeling father’s old words digging into his brain, wasn’t a can of worms Stan particularly wanted to open. Sighing, he dragged a hand down his face. “Whatever. You still need something to eat.”

“Oh, that’s true,” he muttered in plain understanding, as if he hadn’t even considered fueling himself. “I will… go to the local diner, I suppose. I haven’t been there in a long time.” He then started, as if he had just remembered Stanley’s presence. “Do you… wanna come along?”

For a second, everything in Stan’s life looked bright. Clouds parted, rays of sunlight lit everything up, an angelic chorus descended, the works. But then it deflated. “Sorry, I’d love to, but uh… I don’t have the money right now,” he said, turning away from his brother’s face to look at the super interesting light fixture on the ceiling. He didn’t want to dare hope that Ford would invite him anyway.

“Oh,” Ford mumbled. “Well, don’t touch anything while I’m gone.” And then he left, trench coat that he slept in billowing behind him.

Good thing Stan didn’t get his hopes up.

He turned back to the freezer and pulled out the frozen bag of peas. They should still be good, and, well, he’s eaten worse.

* * *

Finding a job was a bit harder than Stan wanted it to be when all anyone said to him was how much he looked like “that spooky science guy that lives in the woods.” He also had nothing clean to wear, which didn’t help matters, but he decided to blame his failures on his brother for once because he was fucking pissed. After the owner of the last place he was at just said to him, “Don’t you already have that science-y government job or something?” he just walked out.

Ten or so different establishments, and nothing to show for it yet. They also assured that they would get back to him, but the phone number he left was Ford’s, so… who knows how that’ll go. And he was getting hungry again.

He shoved a hand into the pockets of his ragged jeans, but all he managed to pull up were a few coins of various origins. This convenience store in front of him probably wouldn’t accept pesos, would it? A hefty sigh left him like he was a deflating balloon. A big, dumb, deflating balloon that couldn’t feed itself.

Nerves tightened his chest and familiar nausea welled up in him, but he pushed it down with all the skill of a man used to being a piece of shit. The glass doors threatened him with their angry all-capitals “PUSH” signs. Whatever happened when he went in there, he needed to eat.

So he pushed the door open. Fuck it, he had been trying to find a job, trying to stay out of Ford’s hair. What was a little light burglary? It was like… treating himself. Which was very, very sad.

He didn’t have room to feel bad though, not when he saw the refrigerated pre-packaged sandwiches.

They sat in a sparsely-visited corner of the store, trapped behind a glass pane. Slowly, Stan reached out and grabbed the handle of the fridge, tugging the containment open. There they were, ham and cheese and turkey and a billion other options. Of its own accord, his hand grasped a chilled ham-and-cheese sandwich, but his heart sank when he saw the price tag. _$1.25_. He didn’t have that much in change. Like he had a thousand times before, he easily moved to conceal the sandwich in his jacket. Already doing dumb shit in a new town and it’s only been a day. Good move, Stanley.

“Howdy there!”

Everything screeched to a halt. Even the generic store music seemed to quiet underneath the blood suddenly roaring in Stan’s ears. Not sure what to do with the sandwich, he hastily dropped it into an inside pocket and turned around, smile plastered onto his face. Before him was a large older woman with gray curly locks. She dressed like a grandma. Pinned to her knitted cardigan was a shiny plastic nametag that read, “MA.”

Oh, she probably worked here. Stan resisted the urge to suck air in through his teeth.

“H-hey, how ya doin’,” he muttered. “Just lookin’ at the sandwiches.”

“I see that!” All too joyful, she continued, “We’ve got some new kinds in stock, feel free to try the Plaidypus-cheese special! Been selling like crazy lately.”

“Uh-huh.” Did she say platypus? Or something else? What the fuck is a plaid-ypus?

“Say, you need any help? You’re looking a bit sweaty.”

Stan immediately shook his head. “Nope, I’m good ma’am.”

“Well, good.” She squinted through her thick circular glasses. “Do I know you, sonny?”

“Nah, I don’t -”

“Ha!” She snapped her fingers. “You’re that creepy scientist in the woods. Doing creepy things up there.”

What the hell did Ford do to give himself this reputation? And why the hell does Stan now have to deal with being associated with it, just because of his face? Shoving down a sting of anger at his twin - one that he wasn’t sure about the legitimacy of - he raised his hands, waving them in a “no” gesture. “Heh, I can see where the confusion comes from, but that’s actually my broth-”

A sandwich slid out of his inner jacket pocket and plopped down to the store tiles with a wet slap.

“-er.”

Jesus, he should carry smoke bombs. That’s a good idea, actually.

“Wait a minute...” The lady scrutinized everything about him, as well as the embarrassing sandwich now lying on the ground. “Are you _steeaaling_?” The words sounded suspiciously like innocent teasing.

“What! No!” Stan rebuked, but his nervous laughter didn’t do him any favors.

She looked him up and down for a moment more. Then, in a shrill yell, she shouted, “Pa! We’ve got another hooligan!” From the counter in the back of the store, a lumbering old man rose and started shambling towards them.

Still doing dumb destructive shit. Good move, Stanley. Good move.

* * *

“Are you kidding me, Stan?!”

Stan sweated profusely in the doorway of his brother’s ridiculously nice home. Behind him, one of the two uniformed police officers nudged him across the threshold.

“Have a good night, Mr. Pines,” the other said with stoic respect. He tipped the black brim of his uniform hat, and then the two men were gone, peeling off in a dark police car with the words “CALL 911 IN AN EMERGENCY” emblazoned across the back. In true Gravity Falls fashion, someone had drawn on stick figures using the two “1”s as stick bodies, and no one had cleaned it up yet. For once, Stan would rather be in the back of that police car.

And he hadn’t even had something to eat yet.

“Well come on,” Stan shrugged, desperately trying to push off all of these shitty feelings. “It’s not like they fined me.”

“Yes, they did,” Ford retorted, exasperated. “How could they not? You tried to _steal_ , Stanley!”

Stan pushed past him deeper into the house, refusing to see Ford’s face. This sucked. This really, really sucked. There was some sort of decaying feeling settling deep in his stomach, sucking him down like quicksand. “Well, they put it on my tab!”

“The-the justice system can’t have _tabs_!” Ford’s voice was coming from somewhere behind Stan in the hallway. He just kept going.

“Well, Gravity Falls does, Ford!” It actually did. They realized all he was trying to steal was a measly corner store sandwich, and they told him to pay off the fine later. They had even laughed about it before letting him go. Something about it filled him with uncomfortably warm shame, but he was just glad to be out of there. He pushed the bedroom-slash-study door open and immediately kicked off his sneakers, the nicest ones he could find in his car. They had been less destroyed and mangled than the rest.

None of those interviews felt good, not when he had greasy, dirty clothes and disgusting overgrown hair. Like a plant that had outstayed its welcome in the garden.

Everything certainly felt that way. His feet were wet in his sweaty, thin socks, one big toe poking out. He made it to the middle of the room, rug fibers crushed underfoot and a few threads poking through the toe hole into his sock, but he stopped when he heard Ford barge in behind him.

“Stan -”

“What!” Stan yelled, his back to his brother. His shoulders were tight in anger, hands thrown into the air. “What could you possibly need, Ford? That was my own shit. It’s not like any of that cost you anything.”

“No, but it will, once you realize you need to pay fines or-or debt and you try to get it off of me!”

Stan saw red beneath his screwed-shut eyelids. Where had Ford even come up with that? “What the fu-”

“And,” Ford continued, frantic anger rising in his voice. Stan still didn’t turn around. “How do you think that’ll affect my reputation, Stan?”

“What, as the crazy scientist in the middle of the woods?” Stan spat.

“No, as the brother to a _criminal_!”

“Jesus, you say it like I was tryin’ to embezzle money or somethin'! It was just a sandwich.”

“Yeah, a $1.25 sandwich! I can’t believe you, Stanley.” Ford had the audacity to sound disappointed, as if he knew what Stan had been up to all these years, as if he had been privy to all of his shit and been fit to judge it. Damn it, almost none of those years had been good - he’d done a lot that he regretted - but those were _his_ years, and Ford knew none of them. But he acted like he did.

Stan spun around. “Don’t speak like you know me, Ford. Don’t do that.” He was teetering on a dangerous edge, not sure what would happen if he toppled over. It was amazing that it took the two of them until now to verbally kill each other, honestly.

“What? Should I not assume that you had basic human dignity? You could’ve just paid for it, but you didn’t.”

“Could I?” Cold and angry, voice rising, Stan advanced across the carpet towards his brother. “Could I, Ford?” His feet were warm, pricked by slight shocks. “What if I couldn’t, huh? But I couldn’t ask you for help either, ‘cause that would be leeching, wouldn’t it?”

His brother backed up, true worry in his eyes. His brown loafers slid backwards. “Don’t touch me, Stan.” And there was something different in his tone now, as his eyes followed Stan’s hands.

It couldn’t stop Stan, though - he was too worked up. Something strange was happening to his hair. It felt fuzzy, almost; a few strands defied gravity to float into his vision. He shook his head and shoved his hands into Ford’s chest, sending his brother off-balance. A static shock stung his fingertips and began to travel up his arms, and before he knew it, everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is one reference to past sex work in this chapter. it's part of one sentence and is barely referenced, only in passing, but i thought people would like the heads up

“Oh my God. This was never tested on human subjects before. What if - Oh my god.”

The voice was familiar, but Stan couldn’t pin it down. He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. His limbs were tingling and it was as if his skin was stretched differently. Not a good feeling, and Stan’s felt a lot of bad things in his time. “What’s with all the blasphemy?” Why the hell did he sound like that? Did he get sick or something?

“Stan? Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

His eyelids were heavy like anvils, but he pried them open anyway. A man stood above him. Staring down at him, full of anxious concern, was _himself_.

Stan screamed. And that was not his voice. His vocal chords were slightly different, his body minutely changed in so many weird ways. He held up his hands. They had six fingers. “What the fuck?!” His chest pressed down on his lungs, body freezing in confusion.

“Stanley, it’s alright, I can explain.” His doppleganger knelt down onto that ugly carpet and rested his hands on Stan’s shoulders with a feather-light touch, almost hovering.

The last time Stan wore a pair of glasses and could properly see was in fifth grade. Still, If his eyes weren’t completely shot to shit, that was... him. It was hard to recognize his own face from the outside, especially through a haze of panic. But the imposter had the same scraggly brown hair that had grown into an awkward mullet, the same splotchy skin, and the same unmistakable nose. Jesus, and the same stench. Did Stan really smell like that? Some deodorant was needed, or a trip to the laundromat - though Lord only knew where he would get the money for that.

“Listen. It’s me. It’s Ford. I know this is crazy, but it was the rug.”

Was Stan high? Himself-Stan, not the other guy. Fuck, this was confusing. None of this was making sense.

“Your socks.”

Huh? Stan looked down to his feet automatically, only to be met with fancy brown shoes. Wait.

The other man only kept talking, pulling his hands away to gesture in accompaniment. “They conducted just the right static charge on my experimental rug. When you touched me, you shocked me, and our consciousnesses transferred.” He fidgeted, as if he was itching to grab something but couldn’t.

“I… oh no.” Ford really had become a mad scientist. “...Ford?” Stan squinted at the man in front of him, at the body that had been his own. Eugh, it was so squishy and gross. If Ford really was in there… must suck for him.

“Yes! Yes, it’s me.” Ford’s tone sounded strange coming out of Stan. Stan never actually sounded like that.

Something in his… Ford’s… well, it was Ford’s, but he was in it right now, this was confusing… bottom line, the skin Stan currently occupied was vibrating somehow. Unlike his own body, Ford’s was extremely awake. Stan found himself holding his eyes open almost painfully wide. A second glance at his six-fingered hands told him that they were strongly shaking. “Jesus, Ford, what’s this?” He held up his hands, shivering uncontrollably.

“I… have six fingers?”

Of course Ford would jump to that. “No, ya numbskull. The shaking.”

“Oh, that. I drink coffee,” he dismissed.

“How much coffee do ya drink, nerd?”

“An amount.” Ford-in-Stan’s-body pushed himself to his feet with a groan. “What _isn’t_ normal is how much your body hurts right now. I wonder if it’s a side effect…” The thoughtful look that graced his face as he pressed his hand to his mouth didn’t match those features. At least, Stan was always told that he wasn’t suited for something like that. A face like that would be a better fit for scraping barnacles off of docks.

“Nah, that’s part of the package.” Stan stood too, wobbly on his feet. Ford was a bit less stocky than Stan, and weighed a little less, which would take some getting used to. Did Ford ever eat?

“I’m experiencing some pretty strong hunger pangs as well. Oh.” Ford was comically wide-eyed and owlish. “I’m… I’m sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“I didn’t know you didn’t have the money for food.” He sounded sheepish.

Stan’s gut tore open into a gaping chasm. He never wanted to hear that. As earnestly as possible, he said, “I’m just a deadbeat, Ford. I coulda bought it.” Anything to hide his poverty. He was supposed to have millions by now. The lie slipped out easily on the unfamiliar gravel that was Ford’s voice. Ford was never a good liar, but Stan was.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, Ford.”

Ford coughed, looking like he didn’t actually believe it. “Well. I thought I had told you not to wear socks on this rug?”

“That… did not happen.”

“Ah. I must have forgotten. Uh, in my coat, could you…”

Stan began fumbling around in the inner pockets of the lonely-looking trench coat that was draped across his shoulders, bumping his new finger against fabric at every possible moment like a baby deer that didn’t know how to walk yet. “Yeah?”

“There’s a journal in there. Could I have it?”

After a moment of awkward searching, Stan produced a sizable maroon journal with a gold six-fingered hand glued to the front. His brother was nothing if not dramatic. Knowing not to say anything, Stan just silently handed the book over with a pen that had been in the same pocket. Ford immediately opened it and rapidly flipped through what looked to be hand-bound pages full of ink scribbles and drawings. Eventually he landed on a blank page. His fidgeting stopped - evidently these two items were what he had been itching to hold.

“I’m going to need you to listen to me very carefully, Stanley. We cannot go into town like this. We must stay in the house while I figure this out.”

“Uh… what do ya mean, Ford? I mean, can’t I just do the static thing with my socks and tap you again and presto-chango? You make it sound like we’re in danger, or somethin’.”

Ford shook his head, and then jerked. He reached up and pushed shoulder-length hair off of his neck, where it had brushed back and forth lightly against the skin. “I… did not enjoy that sensation. If we’re going to be stuck like this, I might have to give you a haircut,” he attempted to laugh.

“Great joke about our future demise,” Stan deadpanned.

“Wha - we won’t _die_ ,” he stammered. “I just need time to make sure that we can _safely_ switch back. This had only been tested on animals before now. I have no idea how this affects humans.” Lost in his own little world, he aggressively scribbled something down in his book.

“Why did you have the rug in your guest room, then?!”

“I… didn’t think about that.” Ford clicked and unclicked his pen, and then crossed his arms. “Besides, I wouldn’t have needed to use this as a guest room if you hadn’t…” A deep sigh left him. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

“No, Ford, I really wanna know what that was gonna be.”

“Well, you won’t get to know.” Determined, he stared down at the words scrawled across one-and-a-half pages so far. “Any physical sensations present before the switch are still there afterwards, but now being experienced by the new consciousness. Vocal patterns and mannerisms depend on the new consciousness, not the old…” Muttering to himself, he made a note there. “It’s odd to have different teeth, that’s for sure. I -” Confusion froze on his face.

After a moment, Stan leaned forward and waved his hand to get his brother’s attention. “Earth to Ford?” Holy cow, Stan’s back hasn’t felt this good in years. That was one thing he would definitely miss going back to his old body. Who’d want to be Stanley Pines anyways? Whatever.

“What is this - there’s a -” Ford moved his jaw slightly and probed with his tongue. And then his teeth fell out.

Now it was Ford’s turn to scream.

Stan lunged for the pair of dentures before they hit the floor. Unfortunately, he technically now had his own saliva all over Ford’s hands. Great. While Ford mouthed uselessly like a fish, Stan simply stood and put the dentures in Ford’s hands, who just stared at them. “They’re just teeth, Ford, it ain’t rocket science. Which I’m sure you’ve done.”

“Uh…” Ford carefully brought the fake teeth to his mouth and put them back in, moving his jaw around until they sat semi-comfortably. “I was wondering why this felt so... uncomfortable. Why the hell do you have dentures, Stanley?” And now Ford looked at him with some sort of soft hurt in his eyes. “We’re 26.”

“Oh, well, ya know… Fucked up my teeth a bit. If ya don’t lay off the coffee, that’ll be you, too,” Stan laughed without any real humor. He resisted the urge to hide in this stupid trench coat, away from his brother’s intense gaze.

“Coffee wouldn’t do this amount of damage.”

Stan rubbed his neck. “Yeah?”

“Stan. Why didn’t you feel safe where you were before?”

Ford only got a blank stare in return.

“I - okay.” Ford took a moment to shut his eyes, then opened them again. “I’m gonna need to call up an old college friend. He’s an engineer, but we need all the help we can get for what I have in mind.”

“...What _do_ you have in mind?”

Ford was already pacing. It made Stan dizzy just looking at him. “Well, gnomes are human-like, right?”

What.

Stan blinked, watching his brother circle a hole into the carpet. He was confronted with that familiar feeling - himself miniaturized, and his brother magnified with the sheer brilliance of what he was doing. “You say that as if I would know.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Ford waved his hands in the air and blinked, his own mannerisms oddly displayed on Stan’s frame. “Gnomes exist and I’ve seen them. Anyways, their physiology is quite similar to ours.”

“Holy shit, you’ve dissected a gnome?” Stan was losing his mind. He didn’t even like peering into the guts of a little dead frog back in biology class.

“What! No!” Ford looked horrified at the prospect. “No, they just let me research them. They have a rather interesting history of medical documentation, you know. I got to converse with their best doctors about the physical structure of their species.”

If Stan acknowledged all the craziness packed into those few sentences, he would faint. So, he didn’t. “Oh. Continue.” Because all of this was perfectly reasonable. And, well, reasonable or not, it was certainly in Ford’s wheelhouse. The six-fingered, socially-awkward, cryptid-loving kid Stan used to know would have adored this shit. Looked like he put together a good life for himself after all. Meanwhile, Stan was debating whether or not to revisit selling himself in Las Vegas, so that was cool.

“Yes! So, I want to approach them and ask if they’re willing to take part in an experiment.” Then he got cagey. “Of course, it will have to be highly monitored, and I would prefer you not to be present. But I still need a research partner for this. Fi - my friend had always been good at making sure my focus isn’t too narrow. I don’t want to accidentally hurt any gnomes, obviously - moral responsibility and whatever” - the way he said that last part sounded concerningly like merely reciting what he had studied for a test - “and he’s always been a safely neutral partner.”

“Alright.” Stan crossed his arms. “But how come I can’t be there?”

Ford gave Stan a look. “Can we not get into this right now? I don’t want to have another fighting match on this carpet. We don’t know what would happen.” He sounded tired.

Giving in, Stan slumped. “Okay. Alright.” He brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose, but bumped into a pair of glasses instead, extra pinky brushing the rims. Right. Jesus. “Let’s just… we should probably roll this thing up, before some other poor unsuspecting souls get sucked into this mess.”

“Oh! Right.” A body-switching rug didn’t seem like something anyone could just leave in a room and forget about, but that was Ford for you.

The two of them lined up at the end of the rug to roll it up, carefully keeping their feet off the plush. The task took two because this rug was heavier than a normal rug - something about how dense the fabric had to be to do what it did, but Stan wasn’t actually listening as Ford let himself nerd-babble. He just felt jittery, and his weight was all wrong, and he wondered how Ford survived on coffee and science alone. The man had to be underweight, easily. Not that Stan had room to talk - he wasn’t a healthy weight either. Combined, they would make one functional twin.

Stan laughed under his breath at the thought.

“What?” Ford said, as they both pushed the rug in on itself.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” It didn’t seem like a good joke to tell. Not yet, not after their fight and how they were somehow still standing around each other on very thin ice. Stan _was_ a guest here; even though he had been mad, he should really be on his best behavior towards the man that was currently housing him (though he never really managed being on his best behavior in the past). But maybe someday they could joke again.

It was a nice idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this plot is getting longer in my notes.. i've been having a lot of fun with this so far!
> 
> thanks so much for reading and commenting! <3


	4. Chapter 4

After the shock had worn off, Stan was completely and utterly worn out. Even so, his eyes refused to close - he'd have to talk to Ford about his caffeine intake later. This was absurd. 

So, instead of doing the right thing and going to bed after this rollercoaster of a day, Stan rested his arms on the kitchen table and shut his burning eyes as Ford dialed a number into the house phone. Somehow even with all that Stan's been through, this day was only dragged out of him kicking and screaming. Ford's house was a welcome respite from… where he'd been, but that didn't mean it was much easier. Just difficult in a different, more intimate way. Like digging to rock bottom and then using the shovel to chip at that too. 

Before he had gotten the go-ahead to come up to Gravity Falls, Stan hadn't thought he would see Ford ever again. And even though he should be grateful for the opportunity to have a roof over his head, he pushed his brother and they got into this mess and Stan felt like absolute shit. Of course he had found a way to fuck this up. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut and heard Ford out? 

He was never good at keeping quiet, though. He could never keep from being explosive, no matter what happened to be in his path at the time.

With a click, the phone dropped into its cradle. "Well, he says he'll be here as soon as possible, but it'll be at least a few days. Fiddleford has a few projects of his own to put on hold, not to mention a family." Ford rubbed his chin. "I tried my best to sound like myself. He thought I had a cold, but I'm surprised that I still pulled it off." He sounded pleased. but frowned when his brother didn’t respond. "Stan? Are you alright?"

"Huh?" Stan's head shot up. 

"Do you feel ill?" Ford abandoned the phone and began to get closer, reaching out a hand - maybe to put on his shoulder.

Stan straightened, shaking his head and quickly stepping away from his brother. "Nah, just tired. I think I'm crashing from all the coffee you pumped into yourself. Also, your neck really hurts?" He rubbed it with a wince.

"Ah, that happens when I fall asleep at my desk sometimes. It's normal."

"I figured," he grumbled.

Ford looked Stan over with an inquisitive eye. "Are you sure you aren't feeling anything unusual? No problems?"

Stan laughed. "Don't worry, sixer, I haven't broken anything in your body since I've had it. I ain't that dumb."

"I was more worried about _your_ safety, Stan."

The words were so serious that Stan didn't know what to say. He coughed. "I think I oughta go to bed. I'm droppin' fast." He shuffled to the doorway of the kitchen. "Lemme know if any of those employers call?" 

"Oh, uh, sure."

As Stan left, he thought he heard a murmured "sleep well," but he couldn't be sure.

The door gave its usual creak - one that Stan was getting used to way too quickly - and he almost shuddered at the scene of the carpet incident. At least the thing was rolled up and shoved upright into the corner, hopefully not about to terrorize anyone else anytime soon. 

His body felt foreign. Everything was different sensations and shapes. He had left Ford's glasses in here, too unused to wearing a pair and uncomfortable with the sharpness of everything. The bed felt more welcoming than ever when he crashed onto it, sucking him in like a big marshmallow. It was even better now that he didn't have a banged-up back.

That didn't make it any easier to fall asleep, though. 

Broken moonlight spilled across the bed and floor. In its light, Stan held up his hands. He touched each finger on the left hand and then tugged on them. Turning his palm over in the selective brightness of the moon, he wondered what it was like to be Ford. And if he would have to learn how. If they could never switch back. He would never forgive himself. All he did was take.

It was the shittiest trade-off on Earth - the identity of a genius scientist for that of a homeless grifter. 

This wasn't his body, but it might have to be if Ford found out that they couldn't fix this. And there Ford goes, cleaning up after him like always. Stan wanted to vomit.

With a sigh, he rolled onto his side. Ready to escape in sleep, he closed his eyes.

And opened them somewhere completely different.

The world around him was ten times more vivid than any normal dream. Even so, it was dark, all monochrome and shadows. He looked down at himself - it was his own body. He stood in a run-down abandoned parking lot that was covered in cracking asphalt and invasive weeds. The painted lines were barely visible anymore. Parked between two faded spots was his own El Diablo, but it was the only car there. A lone road continued into darkness in both directions without the barest hint of other life. He’s been in many parking lots like this before, but this felt even more familiar, like he had been concentrated down into his purest parts here.

Ew. That sounded gross.

Connected to the parking lot was a miscellaneous gray building. It had some number of doors and windows, but for some reason Stan couldn’t actually count them. There were a few dim lights on inside. When he began to traverse the parking lot towards the building, though, it stepped back in an equal distance. Huh.

No matter how far he stepped, the parking lot stretched out further, creating more dirty asphalt and invisible parking stalls to fill the space. It kept running away from him. 

Stan went back to the car.

It was ominously quiet here. Reluctantly, Stan pulled on the driver side door handle of his car. Surprisingly, the door clunked open. He shrugged and got in - there was nothing else to do, really. The interior was as familiar as ever; he’d passed many days in this old girl. It was curiously absent of personal effects, not to mention the mountains of garbage and junk that usually festered in the backseat. There was just the smallest corner of a photograph peeking out from the sun visor, though. With a sad smile, he pulled down the visor to see.

“Ahh!”

Countless photographs fell into his lap. There were definitely more than could possibly fit behind the visor. They just kept coming, and Stan caught a glimpse of old memories - Ford and him talking to each other from bunk to bunk after they were supposed to be asleep, Stan winning his first boxing match, Ford working on homework as Stan painted the Stan-o-War, the unimpressed face of their father - 

And then he blinked, and the photos were gone. The visor was shut flat against the roof of the car again. A nondescript photograph corner was still sticking out in temptation. It was as if it never happened.

“Weird.”

“WHAT’S WEIRD?”

Stan jumped in his seat. He definitely did not yelp, no sir. Pines don’t yelp.

If he did, though, no one could blame him, because there was some sort of fluorescent triangle with arms, legs, and one giant eye sitting in the passenger seat.

“Man, I must have eaten something weird last night,” Stan laughed, even though all he had to eat last night was a pack of saltines he had found in one of the kitchen cabinets. This didn’t feel all that funny, though. Something was heavy in the air. Still, no one tell Stan Pines not to laugh in the face of danger. “Why are you dressed like you’re goin’ to a ball?”

The creature - bright yellow, the only color in this whole place - tugged on its bowtie with confidence. “I LIKE TO PUT MY BEST FOOT FORWARD. UNLIKE YOU, BUT IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT, YOU CAN’T HELP IT!” It wasn’t said with the obvious cadence of an insult, but Stan still looked down at his stained t-shirt. “ANYWAYS, LOOKS LIKE A NEW PLACE OPENED UP AT THIS ADDRESS! DARN GPS. NICE TO MEET YA, I’M BILL.” 

It held out its hand for a handshake, but Stan didn’t reciprocate. Instead, he said, “What the hell is a GPS?”

‘Bill’ laughed a grating laugh. “NEVERMIND, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT.” It patted Stan on the shoulder with one dark, spindly arm, which did not feel too great. “THIS BODY IS USUALLY AN ANCHOR FOR A CERTAIN GENIUS MIND BY THE NAME OF STANFORD, CORRECT?”

“Uh…” Maybe those saltines were bad. Or cursed. “Yes?”

Bill somehow nodded despite being quite two-dimensional in most spots. “YEP. BUT HE’S NOT HERE RIGHT NOW. YOU ARE. AND I CAN ONLY VISIT THE ANCHOR, REGARDLESS OF WHERE THE MIND CURRENTLY IS.”

“Um.”

“SO, THOUGHT I’D WELCOME YOU TO YOUR NEW PLACE.” It spread its arms around, gesturing to the unimpressive inside of the car.

Something about this seemed… off. “How do you know Ford?”

“OH, HE DIDN’T TELL YOU?” It blinked its huge gelatinous eye. “WOW, HE MUST NOT TRUST YOU, LIKE, AT ALL.” 

Okay, that one had hurt a little bit. Well, Ford obviously didn’t trust him that much, but still. Where did his subconscious get off, making up weird abominations to torture himself with? “Answer the question, you weird triangle.”

“SHEESH. SOME PEOPLE.” It turned towards Stan, focusing all its attention on him, and he wanted to shrivel up. “I’M YOUR BROTHER’S MUSE.”

“What the hell does that mean.”

The thing waved a hand. “I CHOOSE ONE GREAT MIND A CENTURY TO HELP PROPEL THEIR SUCCESS. I VISIT THEM AND AID IN THEIR WORLD-CHANGING WORK. OL’ FORDSY IS A PRIME CANDIDATE, SO I’VE STARTED WORKING ON A PROJECT WITH HIM. IT’S NOT MORE THAN THEORY YET, BUT IT WILL BE SOON.” It glowed a blinding yellow. “IF YOU GET THE MEMO AND BOUNCE, THAT IS.”

The whole thing smelled of a con. One great mind a century? Bullshit. Not to mention that it was just a weird dream Stan was having, but he felt like arguing tonight. “Ford said that I could come here. It ain’t like I’m just sucking up his resources or anything.” It didn’t sound convincing to his own ears, but it was technically true… right? “Besides, you’re telling me you have the power to do this only once a century? What gives? Who would stop a creepy triangle like you?”

“THERE’S SOME PEOPLE HIGHER UP ON THE CHAIN, KID. I CAN’T HELP IT. BUT, I’M NOT HERE TO TALK ABOUT ME.” It didn’t physically grow larger, but its suffocating presence gained more weight. “WHAT IS IT THAT MAKES YOU THINK FORD WANTS YOU HERE?” 

“W-What?” Stan knew why Ford _wouldn’t_ want him here. Hell, maybe once this whole body-swap thing was figured out, he’d be kicked to the curb. He didn’t want to believe it, but he hadn’t wanted to believe a lot of things that were true. “I dunno, why do you care?”

Flippantly, it said, “I DON’T REALLY CARE WHAT YOU THINK AT ALL! BUT YOU _ARE_ SLOWING DOWN FORD’S WORK.”

“Oh.” He quieted. He hadn’t thought of that. Maybe he shouldn’t have depended on Ford for a place to stay. Selfish bastard.

It continued. “FACE IT: YOU’RE ONLY HERE BECAUSE YOU WERE IN A TIGHT SPOT, AND AS YOUR BROTHER HE’S OBLIGATED TO HELP YOU. WHAT ARE YOU REALLY DOING FOR HIM HERE?”

“I…”

“YOU EVEN GOT YOURSELVES IN TROUBLE WITH THAT RUG. NO WAY THAT’S DELAYING ANYTHING ACTUALLY IMPORTANT, RIGHT?” It brushed some imaginary dust off its tie. “I DON’T HATE YOU OR ANYTHING, KID. BUT THE FACT OF THE MATTER IS THAT THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS AT STAKE.”

“More important things?” Stan said. “What the hell are you two working on?”

“IF HE TRUSTED YOU, HE WOULD’VE TOLD YOU BY NOW.” The thing shrugged. “I WON’T TELL SECRETS THAT AREN’T MINE.”

This tortilla chip sounded so sure of itself. It was really pushing for Stan to leave, though, so there must be something it valued on the line. Was time of the essence, or was Stan throwing a wrench in its plans, or…? He forced himself to look the thing in the eye, even though it made him want to squirm. “What are you using Ford for?”

Imperceptibly, Bill backed up in the car seat. “SIXER IS GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS. AND YOU’RE NOT PART OF THE PICTURE, STANLEY PINES. YOU NEVER WERE, EVEN WITH HOW MUCH YOU WANTED TO BE.”

Before Stan could retort, everything around him started getting fuzzier, whitening to a light wash. 

“LOOKS LIKE MY TIME’S UP!” Bill exclaimed, harsh and grating. “THINK ON IT!”

Then, everything faded away.

Stan opened his eyes to a dark ceiling. It was still night, or maybe very early morning. He didn’t feel well-rested. That hadn’t been a normal nightmare for him, but for some reason it still shook him into that feeling of not having actually slept. It was like he had just closed his eyes and then opened them. That gross eye and those long limbs and formalwear, of all things. What the hell was in those saltines?

Like his nightmares usually went, though, he couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he kept his eyes on the dark ceiling until the sun began to brighten it.

When he stumbled out of the spare room, blinking against the light, he decided to check that little office that was in the same hallway. Confirming his suspicions, he pushed open the door to a Ford that had once again collapsed at his desk atop a multitude of various papers. Great, he was gonna give Stan’s body chronic neck pain too. 

For a moment, Stan was just going to walk off, but something about the solitude and emptiness of the halls past their rooms gave him pause. Against his better judgement, he entered the office and prodded Ford awake.

“Guh?” Ford lifted his head. A paper had stuck to his cheek, and there was a reddish indent in his forehead where a pen had rested on the desk.

Stan resisted a snort. “Morning to you too, nerd.”

“Oh! Uh, hi, Stanley.” Ford stretched and predictably rubbed his neck. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, I just…” wanted to say hi? Wanted to be around someone? But then he remembered his dream from last night. “Uh, thought you might wanna be awake. Don’t you have boring science-y stuff to do, or something?”

His brother stood, the paper-mass shifting slightly on the wooden surface of the desk. “Well, probably. If we want to get this… situation sorted out in any reasonable timeframe, I should probably do some background research.” For a moment, he was lost in thought. “Though, actually, I was wondering if you wanted to, ah, have breakfast with me this morning.” A delicate, uneasy smile lifted up the corners of his mouth. Apparently he had never removed the dentures the night before, but that was fine because Stan was shit at taking care of them too.

It was weird that Ford’s smile was very obviously covering something up. 

“Uh… I’m not hungry?” Stan tried.

“That is scientifically impossible. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, which means that right now, the body you’re in is craving nutrients. I know my body, Stan, and you should feed it.” The flow of words was near-automatic in an oddly rushed way as Ford looked down at his five-fingered hands.

“Okay, but, uh, I’m pretty sure it would be a bad idea to go out, so where am I supposed to buy food” - not to mention with what money, which Stan did not want to bring up -

“Why would you have to buy food?” Ford was nonchalant, as if Stan wouldn’t be eating the food that Ford paid for, as if there were never any arguments about this topic at all. “I have things in the fridge, for once.”

“But -”

“Come on, let’s eat. Just hand me some of your clothes if you could, and I’ll do the same, and we’ll get changed first. No need to be wearing the same thing the entire time we’re… uh, like this.” False positivity colored his words. “I’ll go grab something for you to wear.” And just like that, Ford all but flew out of the room.

“Okay,” Stan muttered, but it wasn’t all that okay. His stomach lurched and he absent-mindedly pulled down the sleeves of Ford’s gross trench coat. Maybe Ford wouldn’t notice anything? Yeah right. Permanent marks on the body weren’t exactly subtle. There was a reason Stan tried to keep his shirtless moments to a minimum. Well, if Ford didn’t mention it, Stan wouldn’t either, so there. Just go look for halfway-acceptable pieces of clothing and stop thinking about it.

Before Stan left the office, though, something on the desk caught his eye.

Plenty of weird knick knacks were scattered across every surface imaginable in Ford’s nerdy hermit shack. Everything from jars of weird species (ones that Stan thought had been fake until he learned that gnomes exist?) to piles of old dusty tomes and statues and above all else, an insane amount of journals and papers. But this wasn’t a random wood carving, or an ambiguously unsettling shiny amulet. When Ford woke up and moved around, some papers had shifted to reveal a golden statue on the desk.

It depicted a triangle-shaped being with arms, legs, and one large, piercing eye.

Stan gulped.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk of scars and implied self-harm in this chapter.

The golden statue cooled Stan’s fingertips. It was an impersonal feeling that didn’t provide any comfort.

Ford had brought him a pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt that should fit him, and in return, Stan had passed Ford a vaguely clean (face it - that t-shirt was unforgivable, but what else did Stan have) stack of clothes. While Ford was still changing, Stan swiped that statue off of Ford’s desk and merely sat tensely at the kitchen table with a physical embodiment of that weird dream in his hands. His shirt collar was too stiff, riding up into his neck and scratching him. He felt like he couldn’t take full breaths, and could only breathe shallowly as he waited for his brother to appear.

This didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Just what was Ford up to in these woods? Was everything in that dream true? If that Bill creature actually had a working relationship with Ford, did that mean that it was telling the truth and Ford really did want Stan gone already? He hadn’t even been here for a week. And if Ford _was_ in contact with this thing, that wasn’t good, because it was the personification of dishonesty.

He realized he was clutching the statue in a sweaty grip and let go a bit, moisture shining on the sides of the idol. Good to know that Ford’s body responds similarly to his in times of stress.

According to Bill, there must be a lot of things Ford hid from Stan; it wasn’t surprising due to their background. Well, if Ford really wanted Stan to leave, he would. But he didn’t know how he would survive after that. Forget what he was running from, forget the trouble of finding somewhere safe after this - he wasn’t sure how to take such deep-cut rejection twice. And even if Ford doesn’t end up kicking him out, they still have to talk about this Bill thing. Unless Stan’s crazy, this thing in his hands was the exact same as the creepy figure in his dream. And a statue of it didn’t seem like something Ford could buy in any old shop - Christ, what if he made it by hand?

This wasn’t what he had expected when he was at the end of his rope for the millionth time in front of a payphone.

“Stan, I need to talk to you about - oh.” There was Ford in the doorway, fiddling with his hands. He was subdued and distant, but everything came into focus when he laid eyes on what rested between Stan’s hands on the kitchen table. “I -”

“Listen, Ford, I -”

They both shut up, neither willing to talk over each other.

“I… I’ll go first,” Ford determined. Was that reluctance in his voice? Was he avoiding something? He kept his eye on the golden idol as he slowly approached the kitchen table and took a seat. “I have… a few questions for you.”

“Mine might be a little more important -”

“Just hear me out, okay, Stan? Before we talk about… whatever you want to talk about. Alright?” At Stan’s jerky nod, Ford sighed and sank into a chair across from his brother. “I was getting changed.”

Stan’s stomach churned uncomfortably. He could picture every mark on his skin that must have been visible just from changing a shirt, even - patterned and raised circles of cigar and cigarette burns, a few sizable lines from where a knife was thrust into flesh, various other nicks and burns. That wasn’t even including what was below the waistline. The practiced series of thin, straight scars collected on his upper thighs were clearly done with a tight, controlled hand. Repetitive. Over and over. Those were the most worrying ones he hid beneath his pants, even though there were a few cigarette burns and scarred scratches on his legs as well.

Ford opened his mouth. “And -”

“Haha, those?” Stan laughed awkwardly. Might as well get there before Ford did. “I was… in a circus. It’s a dangerous profession.” That was sold as straight-faced as he could manage, but Stan got the feeling that a lie wouldn’t work this time.

“You’re telling me you got self-infli - nevermind.” Ford shook his head, eyes squeezed shut for a second. “I don’t…” He sighed, some sort of war playing out on his face. Carefully, he said, “Stanley, I can’t pretend that I’m not still mad at you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, hear me out. I _am_ … upset, still. At a couple things. Definitely at the way we ended things, but also how we’ve been acting like avoiding any and all talk about the past eight or so years is acceptable.” He scratched his neck. “We don’t really know each other anymore. I guess seeing what you’ve been through without me just reminded me of that. I wasn’t pushing this before because I am admittedly not sure to talk to you anymore, but I would greatly appreciate a more detailed explanation of the circumstances that made you seek me out for asylum.”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna hear about it.” Stan crossed his arms bitterly.

“I’m letting you stay here. It would be nice to have a reason.” Ford seemed calm on the surface, but he was obviously trying to keep his voice level. Fighting had gotten them into this mess, after all.

Nervous sweat made Stan clammy and even more anxious. Jeez, Ford’s body might be even sweatier than his, and that’s saying something. In desperation - anything to steer the conversation away, and today’s terrifying and confusing revelation was more than an okay excuse - Stan clenched his fist around the statue still in front of him and thumped it on the table to draw Ford’s eye to it. “If ya want me to trust you with what’s really been happening, Ford, you gotta trust me first.” Even though any degree of trust between them would be difficult to manage. Even though their amicable front (which had only lasted a day or so at most) was only a cover over the fact that neither of them knew how to deal with each other’s presence anymore.

Stan knew it would only take so long before they were forced to confront the fact that the pieces to their relationship no longer formed a perfect puzzle.

“What do you mean?” Ford said oddly. Ford had always been a bad liar. It was clear that he recognized that golden figurine, and that Stan’s acknowledgement made him nervous, but for what reason was unknown.

“This thing was in my dream last night.” Stan’s voice cracked at the end.

“What?!” Any careful regulation of his responses was forgotten in favor of wide eyes and a frightening amount of shock on his face. Not exactly reassuring. “Maybe that makes sense, the anchorship status... “ He nodded to himself. “What - what did he say?”

So that dream had actually been a real encounter, of a thing that Ford had no problem working with. Cool, cool. Everything's fine.

“It spoke to me. It told me about how you’re a genius mind about to change the world, and how I should leave if you wanna get your work done on time, whatever the hell that really is.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It scared the shit outta me.”

Ford heaved a sigh loaded with complexities. He reached up to push up his glasses, a nervous tic of his, but since there wasn’t a pair there, he just uselessly bumped his hand into his face. He had tried on his glasses yesterday evening, but Stan and him were evidently different prescriptions now, and they didn’t seem to really help. “This is… not ideal.”

“Cool, ‘cause if it’s not, I can leave.”

“No!” Ford coughed. “No, you don’t have to leave. From what I’ve seen, I don’t want whatever you’re running from to catch up to you,” he practically muttered.

Stan wasn’t sure if what he “seen” meant Stan’s poor health, or his scars, or that desperate phone call, or all three. He wished he hadn’t shared any of it. Maybe he should’ve just let himself be tortured hundreds of miles away. “You sure I’m not riding on your coattails or nothin’?” He said softly. “This Bill character, uh, thought that was a pretty strong possibility.”

“Bill said that?” Ford blinked in surprise, as if a large neon eldritch horror that looked like it was hastily redesigned to be kid-friendly was in any way capable of being a supportive, loving friend.

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t wanna be a nuisance” - even though he was being one just by staying here - “so just say the word and I’ll leave. I don’t wanna be here just ‘cause you feel… obligated to help me.” That triangle was right about that, at least. “Just… if I leave, you don’t have to, but I mean, can ya keep me updated? That Bill guy gives me the creeps. Conman all over.”

But then again, maybe Stan was just being stupid and giving unwanted input. This thing Ford had with Bill didn’t feel right or even mildly okay, but maybe Stan was just butting in where he wasn’t wanted.

“Let me get one thing straight: we have our issues, but…” Ford fiddled with a loose thread on his jeans. “I… don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave anytime soon. Even after this body-swapping mess is fixed up. It’s clear you’ve been having trouble. You came here to have a place to - to live, right?” Ford swallowed around the words. “You can stay. I just want an explanation.”

Stan crossed his arms and leaned on the table, tracing the reflections in the gold idol with his eyes. Anything not to look at Ford’s face. After a long, long moment, he quietly said, “So this Bill thing is really your muse? Choosing you to help with some big project or whatever?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the starry-eyed look Ford had. “Yes. He’s been invaluable to me as of late. I’m not sure where I’d be without him, to be honest.”

The scoff that came out of Stan’s mouth was muffled by his sleeve, at least. “Ya don’t need a creepy witchcraft demon to do great things, Ford. You’re great on your own.” He’s looked at people before the way Ford must look at this Bill guy, eyes wide and blinded with awe. It wasn’t a safe feeling to feel. When this happened to Stan, it disarmed him until it was too late. That had resulted in one of his less fun state bans.

Ford didn’t agree with him. He just qualified, “Well, it certainly helps.” He tapped the table, staring intensely at his fingers making sound on the wood. “Though I’m not sure why he would warn you against staying. I know that he has the best intentions at heart, at least.”

“Yeah, a guy that tries to manipulate your brother into leaving by attacking his self-esteem might not be a good guy.” Stan winced. Just because he knew he was being puppeteered didn’t mean the creature wasn’t technically correct about Stan’s distinct role in Ford’s life - or lack of role.

“The Bill I know wouldn’t do that.” Ford shook his head. “Maybe you’re just misinterpreting things?”

“Well, no, Ford, he very clearly said that I’m not part of your genius picture, or whatever. Which, y’know, even though it’s true… it still hurt.”

“I’ll… have to talk to him once we’re back in our own vessels.” His voice was small and suddenly uncertain. “Maybe we can reach a compromise.”

“You want me around that bad?” Stan whispered, almost to himself.

“I know we haven’t spoken in a long time, but regardless of that, I want you… safe. I’m angry, but I never wanted you hurt. Not like…” He swallowed. “If you have to be with me for the time being to be safe, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Guilt spread unwelcome under Stan’s skin. Some of his scarring was pretty fresh. If Ford hadn’t seen it, would he have agreed with his “muse” and booted him out? “I promise, I’ll be outta your hair after Flim Flam-”

“Fiddleford.”

“- shows up and we fix this.”

Tentatively, Ford said, “Okay. We’ll… we’ll see. But I told you about Bill. You can’t tell me about yourself?”

Stan dropped the statue on the table with a clatter and swiftly stood, kitchen chair screeching across the floor. He tugged the fridge door open and stared intensely at the fresh carton of eggs that had showed up in here at some point. “Uh, w-want eggs for breakfast, Ford? I can make a mean omelet. I mean, it kinda looks like you don’t have much to put in the omelet, so maybe it’ll just be folded-over eggs, but that’s fine,” he rambled.

Completely serious, Ford said, “Can I have some truth in that omelet?” Despite his efforts, there was some bite to his words. “Stan, just stop with the lying. I told you, now you tell me. Or else we’re not even.”

As kids, him and Ford were all about fairness. If Stan got a new toy, Ford had to get a gift similar in size. If they had to share a cookie, they would actually break out a butter knife to help them split it in the most equal way possible. A timeless memory of Stan’s was the many times they stood side-by-side in the kitchen, pouring their soda into two glasses and bending down to watch the fizz settle down. If the two amounts of soda didn’t end up equal, they would even it out.

But when was the last time they were “even?” Stan broke Ford’s project, albeit accidentally, and in return, Ford never contacted him again. Ford left him behind to fend for himself in a world where no one had wanted him except for Ford. Without his brother, Stan had no value. He was a useless piece of currency from a lost era. Because if he wasn’t going to be the brawns to Ford’s brains, what was he?

Ford could exist on his own. Could even stand tall and make his own greatness. But Stan was just a criminal leech. And this whole thing had only happened to him because no one was around to help him when he needed it the most.

Stan violently cracked a few eggs into a pan on the stove, fumbling with his extra fingers. Shell might’ve gotten in there somewhere.

Fuck being even.

“Stan?” Ford said.

“Ford, I’m gonna make us breakfast, and then we’re not gonna talk about it.” Stan’s throat tightened. “Yet.”

“So we will eventually?”

Stan said nothing, only pushing the eggs around on the pan with a spatula. The sound of sizzling food filled the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twin and I always made sure our sodas were even lol


	6. Chapter 6

A tense day or so passed. After that stuttering conversation at the kitchen table, Ford engrossed himself in reviewing his notes on the gnomes, and Stan did literally anything else. Most of their conversation had been frightening and uncomfortable - okay, so Ford had a dream demon thing in his brain helping him with science, and Ford had some undesirable questions and thoughts, and the weirdest part was that Ford had also been awkwardly, unexpectedly pitying. All things Stan could deal with, especially by distracting himself and not confronting them whatsoever.

(That was especially difficult when he had laid in bed that night unable to close his eyes, kept up by his uncomfortable skin and the idea that ‘Bill’ would visit him again. As if he hadn’t had his own concerns before about everyday nightmares. Turned out that no one and nothing paid him an unwelcome visit when he finally fell asleep, but he only got around three hours of rest.)

If Ford pushed plates of food towards Stan without asking to be paid back, and Stan took it upon himself to make sure Ford consumed more than coffee or the stale air of his office, well, that was just another thing to distract himself from thinking about.

They only started talking again, really, when Stan developed a headache that could most realistically be described as the result of someone tearing his skull in half with their hands; it was an unfortunate metaphor that set off some of the less self-preserving parts of Stan’s brain, but it was the best parallel, to be honest.

“Uh, Sixer?”

Ford jumped at his desk, pen dragging across the paper. “Oh. Huh?”

“Any reason why I would have a splittin’ headache right about now?”

“Hm.” Ford tapped his chin. “I don’t believe so.”

“So your body’s just bein’ inconvenient for no reason then, got it.”

“Oh!” Ford snapped his fingers. “Coffee withdrawal, perhaps. Maybe I should’ve mentioned that I drink ten or so cups a day.”

“Jesus Christ, Ford!” Stan slapped his forehead. Of course.

Ford shrugged. “I have a lot of work to get done each day.”

“Clearly.” How much coffee do you even need to have before you hit some sorta ‘benefit’ limit?

“Now that you mention it, I feel… not hungry, per se, but I’m craving… something.” Ford smacked his lips. “I want to do something with my hands?”

Oh. That actually made sense, especially since Ford must be under some stress right now - all because of Stan, which, okay, sure, let’s not think of that or we’re gonna wanna go jump off a cliff. Stan nodded in clear understanding. “I’ll be right back.” He ran out to the bag he kept in his room, rummaged around in it, and came back to the office. Lightly, he underhand-tossed a small rectangular object. It landed right in Ford’s lap. Ford picked it up and examined a white pack of Marlboros.

“Cigarettes, Stanley? Really?”

“Ha, it’s not the worst thing I’ve done.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He flipped over the box. “These health warnings should really be more noticable,” he muttered to himself.

“Hey, like you’re one to talk. You’re way too thin, poindexter. And I’m not sure how you’ve convinced yourself that ten cups o’ joe a day is exactly healthy.” He could feel his defenses already climbing up.

“Well, I _need_ coffee -” Ford blinked. “Oh. That wasn’t going to be a very sound argument, was it.”

Stan gave him a look from his position in the doorway. “Yeah, well, anyways, I’ve been tryin’ to quit - those things ain’t cheap when you add it all up - but if you’re really having trouble, feel free to smoke.”

Ford opened the package with hesitant hands. Inside rested three cigarettes. “I’ve never done this before.” He didn’t know what to do with himself.

Stan rolled his eyes. Dork.

Suddenly, a ding like that from a bell sounded throughout the house.

“You have a doorbell?”

“I suppose I do.” Ford sounded a bit too uncertain about that.

Pushing down an unwanted piece of himself that now became anxious over dumb things like visits and strangers, Stan pushed himself off the doorframe. “I’ll get it.”

“No, Stan, I can -”

But Stan was already striding over to the front door. He put on his best showman smile to sell the act. Face it, Stan would be better at pretending to be Ford than Ford would be at pretending to be Stan. The guy had never had to act like another person in his life, probably. That was something Stan definitely had experience with. When he pulled the door open, though, a stick-like man - mousy but in a kind of adorable way? - pushed up his circular glasses and said, “Howdy, Stanford. Sorry I’m a bit later than planned.”

Whatever Stan had been expecting, it wasn’t a plain little southern man.

Stan blinked at him. He looked science-y enough, with his tweed and his librarian-like frames and the two briefcases hanging from their handles off his thin fingers. Ford would definitely room with a guy like this in college. “You’re Fiddler?”

“Wha - yes, I _suppose_ -”

Might as well rip the bandaid off. “Okay then. I’m not Ford.”

“What?!”

Stan simply turned so that his voice would travel easier down the hallway. “Ford! Get your ass in here! Your nerd friend is at the door!” From the back, faint sounds of paper-shuffling and clattering reached them. Then, Ford emerged and jogged over to the front door.

“Great! It’s brilliant to see you, Fiddleford. Come in, no need to stand out there all night.”

The uncertain young man readjusted his glasses again and tentatively stepped into the house proper, shutting the door behind him. He pointed at Stan. “But - you have the six fingers, and -”

Ford and Stan exchanged a look. With a placating raise of the hands, Ford assured, “We can explain everything.”

* * *

Stan could get used to this Fiddler guy, really.

Fiddleford was currently pacing in front of the kitchen table where they had all been seated. He rubbed his eyes again with a groan that hinted at years of experience with Ford’s special brand of ignorance. “So you’re tellin’ me that you made a rug that could _swap people’s bodies_ \- a function that has no scientific purpose, mind you - and then thought that it would be fine to just leave it in the guest room where your estranged brother was stayin’?”

“It isn’t my fault Stanley didn’t heed my warning about the socks!” Ford protested. There was a notable lack of acknowledgement towards the ‘estranged brother’ part. “Anyways, it’s already done, so now we just need to find a way to switch back. Safely.”

The thin man heaved a long-suffering sigh and, resigned to his fate, slowly sunk back down into his chair at the table. “Yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it…” He tapped the table. “Our best bet would be to just static up that rug again, you’d probably be fine… But then again, what if you weren’t? But we obviously can’t test other humans, that would be unethical.”

Ford leaned forward against the rickety kitchen table, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. “Fiddleford, what if I told you that we could test something similar?”

“Children?” Fiddleford said, with a note of disgust and a bewildered blink.

“Wai - what? No, of course not. I was thinking about gnomes!”

Stan put his head down in his arms on the table (avoiding faceplanting into his coffee - it tasted bitter but it definitely kept the headaches at bay) and tried not to wheeze. These two were a riot.

A beat of awkward silence passed between them.

“Gnomes.” There wasn’t much amusement in Fiddleford’s flat tone.

“Yes! You know how I’ve been researching anomalies out here in Oregon? Well, it turns out that a colony of gnomes lives out in these woods. And their physiology is comparable to ours. Better than rats, even.” Ford looked very excited and alert despite currently wearing Stan’s run-down, unshaven face.

“Stanford, you know I trust you. You’re very smart and capable of more than even I can do.” This was genuine. “But maybe this cabin is doin’ things to your head?” This was more delicate, careful and hushed. Stan could imagine the deliberate care this guy must put into raising his son. Leave the mothering to the ma, why don’t ya.

“Whoa, I know Ford is a bit out there, okay, but no more than he’s always been.” Stan ignored Ford’s “hey!” as well as the fact that he had found himself interjecting on Ford’s behalf without even realizing it. “Now, he says these gnomes are real, and I believe ‘im.” Because why not? There were some weird noises in their trash cans in broad daylight earlier, and the vague shapes he could spot as they ran off hadn’t exactly resembled racoons.

“I could bring you my notes if you would like,” Ford offered to Fiddleford. “Or we could even go out and find the gnomes ourselves. That’s what I wanted help with, actually. I know you’ve always been more…” Ford fumbled over his words.

“Morally tactful?” Fiddleford suggested blandly. Stan decided that even with the ‘mother hen’ bits, he liked this guy.

“Yes,” Ford confirmed without a hint of self-awareness. “And I knew you would be able to do an experiment like this justice.”

“Are you telling me that the gnomes are conscious? And think? Like-like humans do?”

Ford was suspiciously silent. Fiddleford turned to Stan, who just shrugged.

“And you want to use them for an experiment?” Fiddleford continued.

Suddenly, Ford was particularly interested in his ten fingers.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you two.” He shook his head.

“Are you - uh - are you going to be able to help?” Ford asked tentatively.

“Of course I am.”

Stan pumped his fist in the air.

Fiddleford shook his head again and muttered, “Ya owe me big-time, Stanford.”

* * *

There was so, so much jargon.

Stan had just slipped into the kitchen to wash some dishes. He had been making sure Ford was eating something, and maybe Ford had also been giving Stan leftovers too - could neither confirm nor deny - and that meant that Ford’s meager collection of silverware and plates was getting used up at a higher rate than they must’ve been when Stan had first arrived. And judging by the pile of dishes that had been present when there was only one man living here who forgot to even eat half the time, Ford did not have a propensity to dish-washing.

So. Someone’s gotta do it.

Up to his elbows in soapy dish water, Stan scrubbed roughly and uncaringly at a stubborn plate, maybe gripping it more tightly than he should. The water was too hot. He didn’t turn it down. It wasn’t about to physically burn Ford’s hands that he was currently borrowing, so did it really matter? He missed the way his hair brushed against his neck. But he also missed when his hair was short, because that was a better time in his life, and so right now he just felt very, very uncomfortable. Really, it could be said that most of his post-school memories contained the micro-memory of missing something else.

Pa had always liked the barber shop. He at least took pride in his son’s close-cropped haircuts. At least Stan could _look_ like a good son.

So anyways, that was when Stan zoned out of his mind and tuned into the conversation taking place in the adjacent room. What was up with nerds inventing five hundred new words to explain something in a fancier way, just so that a dumb guy like him couldn’t understand it?

“Yes, see, but what we would call the ‘frontal lobe’ is essentially the same. Even though the gnomes call this part of their brain ‘the thinky place’...” Ford was saying.

“Hmm. But so what is all this matter here?”

“Ah…” Silence, and then shuffling papers, and then a lot more talk that would give Stan a headache even if he could understand it. Something about ‘neurotransmitters’ and ‘cellular scale’ and ‘hominins.’ Eventually, although Stan had difficulty following their winding discussion, he heard that Fiddleford had managed - even with his continued insistence that he was “more of an engineer than a physician” - to help Ford understand something that must’ve been important. And Ford had thanked his research partner profusely, and Fiddleford had responded with a characteristic Southern “aw, shucks.”

“Seriously, Fiddleford, what would I do without you here?” Ford sounded relieved.

Meanwhile, the most Stan could do with himself was wash the dirty dishes in the kitchen and stay out of their way.

An abrupt crack sounded.

Stan had slammed a cup down too strongly against the sink bottom. The flimsy glass had cracked open. Jagged inner edges were scraping his soapy hands. So much for keeping these hands pristine.

In the other room, chatter died into sudden silence. Chairs scraped against the hardwood.

“Stan?” Ford hesitantly called out.

Stan closed his eyes shut tight and counted to five. Then, he opened them again and reminded himself to deal with the mess he made. “I just broke a cup, Ford. I’ve got it.” Thin scratches along his fingers were dirtying the soap water.

“If you’re sure…”

He was more than sure. He picked the glass shards out of the sink and quietly cleaned up after himself until it was like he had never been there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to call everyone's attention to this addition my cat wanted to put into this chapter - it didn't make the final cut, but i thought it was important enough to include in the end notes: "xzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr4e"
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has some violence, as well as very brief blink-and-you'll-miss-it suicidal ideation of some sort.
> 
> also a very tiny allusion to bi stan! which is canon in this fic.

"LONG TIME NO SEE, PAL."

Stan jolted awake, smacking his head on the headrest of his car seat. "Huh?" His back - his own back - was aching from sleeping in the car. It was chilly in here. The monochrome grays probably didn't help things.

The coldest part of his car was that spot where that triangle thing sat in the passenger seat, imposing and unnerving.

"BOO! HAHA."

Stan didn't laugh. He tried not to look at that thing.

"SHEESH, JUST TRYING TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD. IT'S LIKE A FUNERAL IN HERE." Bill adjusted his little bowtie. He had said that with far too much glee. "AT LEAST I'M DRESSED FOR THE OCCASION."

In a way, Bill was right - it had been dark here before, but now it was suffocating in its gloom. The shadows oozed black, and the lonely road beyond his dirty windshield looked like it really did go nowhere now.

“Ugh, what do you want?” Stan shifted in his chair and tried to sit up a little straighter. Now that he knew that this Bill guy was real, this dream felt a lot more serious. He kind of wished that he really had just eaten some paranormal saltines.

“WHAT, YOU’RE EVEN COLDER TO ME NOW THAT YOU KNOW I’M FRIENDS WITH YOUR BROTHER? RUDE.”

Stan folded his arms, still looking away. “Nah, I’m cold to ya ‘cause you’re bad news. Or at the very least, you’re not _good_ news. Not to me, anyway.”

“WHY? DID I TAKE YOUR SPOT, STANLEY PINES?” Bill’s one big eye blinked, and then their seats were swapped.

Stan flinched and pulled on his seatbelt in a panic that was trying _very hard t_ o veer out of control. Everything was the same, but he was in the passenger seat. To his left, Bill was at the wheel.

In a perfect replica of Stan’s voice, the ‘muse’ taunted, “I’m Ford’s brother and I like punching and being emotionally repressed! I’ll never have the courage to date a boy and I’ll probably end up dead in a ditch before I’m thirty! SEE, THAT’S YOU. THAT’S WHAT YOU SOUND LIKE.”

This was way too much. Stan swallowed a little too hard and looked at his hands, which had curled into angry fists. If this guy wasn’t apparently Ford’s bestie, he’d deck him. If Bill had insulted Ford, he would have _definitely_ decked him.

But he only insulted Stan.

Stan let his fists slowly uncurl in his lap. The muse continued.

“BUT YOU SEE, I’M NOT JUST YOUR REPLACEMENT. I’M BETTER THAN THAT. I’M WHAT YOU COULDN’T BE. AN INTELLECTUAL MATCH.” His yellow glow was painful to watch. “MORE THAN THAT, I’M THERE FOR HIM. YOU JUST UP AND LEFT!”

“I didn’t!” Stan weakly protested. What was he supposed to do, let their dad beat him to a pulp? Come back, tail between his legs, and internally die in that house? At that point, his pride was all he had. He wasn’t about to give it up when it was all he had left to stand on.

Bill closed his eye and tutted. “AND NOW YOU’RE HERE, STILL THROWING A WRENCH IN THINGS. THAT POOR FARM GUY OUT THERE IS AWAY FROM HIS FAMILY TO HELP YOU. BUT ARE YOU THE KIND OF PERSON THAT DESERVES IT?”

The only sound for a moment was Stan’s attempt at keeping his breathing steady and looking down at his limp hands.

“ WHATEVER HAPPENS NEXT ISN’T MY FAULT, PINES.”

“Whatever happens next?” Stan’s head shot up. “Wait - “

He opened his eyes to a ceiling only barely touched by light, breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he forced himself to relax into the cushions and rolled onto his side, staring at the opposite wall. Time to lay here until the other two are up.

* * *

Stan must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he heard wasn’t creaking floorboards or doors opening, but instead a loud clattering in the kitchen. His eyes flew open and he reflexively curled his hand into the brass knuckles under the pillow, before he realized that he had one too many fingers for that now. Well. He could work with it.

It was probably the nerds. Hell, who else could it be? It wasn’t like this big scary shack in the middle of the forest was at all approachable or even saw much foot traffic. It _could_ be welcoming and inviting - an image blinked by in his head of a little gift shop in the front, maybe a picturesque piece of flattened earth under some trees for people to park in so that they can come in and spend money. As it was, though, it was just… overgrown and creepy.

Overgrown and creepy were the feelings that pushed him to keep his knuckle dusters on him as he snuck out towards the kitchen doorway. Quietly, he peered in.

It was just Fiddlesticks clattering some pans around while Ford stood around. Thank goodness.

“Oh, good morning, Stan, want some eggs?” Fiddleford asked, and he muttered to himself, “since that seems to be the only thing y’all have in the fridge at the moment.” He was spreading a liberal amount of butter on the bottom of a pan, a carton of eggs open on the counter beside him.

“Uh…” Stan was about to say no. Where had Fiddles even gotten that apron? It was light blue and checkered and Stan was _very_ confused about it.

“Stan, wha - are those brass knuckles?” Ford suddenly said in lieu of a good morning. Before Stan could respond, Ford tapped Fidds’ shoulder. “Make some for him too, would you?”

“I - eggs. Sure,” Stan muttered distantly. He slipped his brass knuckles into his pocket.

Ford gave Stan a scrutinizing look, but seemed to let it go, gathering up a chunk of looseleaf paper off of the kitchen counter and transporting it to a worn and dirty knapsack. “We figured some breakfast would be in order before we went off today.”

“We?”

“Me and Fiddleford. To go see the gnomes?”

“Oh. Right,” Stan nodded. After a beat, he sat himself down at the kitchen table and fiddled with his hands.

A stern cough came from in front of the oven.

“You alright, Fiddleford?” Ford asked, leaning back against the counter to get a better look at him. “Are you sure you’re good to go out?”

“Yes, I’m just fine,” Fiddleford said, but then another pointed cough made its way out of him, kept away from the eggs by his fist placed in front of his mouth. “Aren’t you forgettin’ something?” With one last meaningful grumble of his throat, he pulled the pan of eggs off of the stovetop and tipped it over the first of three plates. The spatula scraped against the inside of the pan.

Ford looked around him. “I brought all the papers in my bag, I have my journal…” He started counting off supplies on his fingers, accidentally counting one more space than he actually had at the moment. After a pause, he lifted up his thumb instead. “I even brought one of those hair ties for -” In the midst of maneuvering the unfamiliar mop hanging down his neck, his hands dropped. “Oh! Oh.”

“Oh?” Stan repeated with confusion.

For reasons unknown, Fiddleford put his head in his hands. Decisively, he grabbed two plates and plunked them down on the table, making Stan jump. “Well! I’m gonna go eat in the living room, cause you see, I uh… have a social phobia. Yup, can’t eat in front of y’all.” He scooped up his own plate and hurried out.

“But you ate with us yesterday night!” Stan’s comment yielded no response. He was gone. At the sound of a chair creaking in front of him, Stan turned back. Ford was sitting at the other end, pulling his own plate of eggs closer to him. “That guy’s a little weird.”

“Yes, well…” Ford poked at his food with a fork, splitting it into little bite-sized sections instead of diving in. Some things never change. “He had wanted me to talk about something.” He swallowed. “With you. Um.”

Was this…? Stan’s insides flipped around. Was he gonna have to leave?

Ford finally speared some eggs, but didn’t bring them to his mouth. “As you know, for my own reasons I’m a bit… skeptical about bringing you along to see the gnomes.”

“Wa - I thought I was staying here for the day.” Stan furrowed his brow, unwittingly hearing anger bleed into his voice. “Now you’re just driving it home, huh?”

“No! No,” Ford waved one hand, putting a bite of egg into his mouth and swallowing. “I - Fiddleford, that is, he wants me to - anyway.” He coughed. “What I mean to say is, if you can be really careful out there… Do you want to, uh, come with us today?”

Come with them? On a nerdy adventure to a gnome-y cove?

Some sort of tense knot unraveled a bit in Stanley’s chest.

He would say yes, but it seemed that a lump of some kind was taking up residence in his throat. He looked down so that Ford wouldn’t see his eyes watering. Might as well shove a bunch of eggs into his face while he’s at it.

“Stanley, are you alright?” Ford’s eyes widened, as if to say ‘this wasn’t part of the plan.’

Aside from the struggle trying to swallow all that food… “Yeah, I’m fine, you dumb nerd.” Stan laughed. “Sure, I’ll -”

“Uh, fellas?” It was Fiddleford’s voice, unusually meek, peeking out from beyond the kitchen.

Ford and Stan finally made eye contact. Slowly, Stan stood, slotting his fingers imperfectly into his brass knuckles and brandishing them clear as day on his fists. He made sure not to agitate the squeaky furniture.

“Stanley, really.” Ford shook his head in clear disapproval and got up himself, letting the chair make its usual noise. “What’s up, Fiddleford?” He strode out into the soft darkness of the hallway that funneled to the front door.

Forcing down the squirming concern in his gut, Stan followed.

Fiddleford stood by the front door, still wearing his dumb little apron. A half-finished plate of eggs was left abandoned on a side table beside a few jar specimens. In the doorway were two tall, tan men wearing thick leather jackets in the Oregon heat, one only slightly shorter than the other. They had the make of bodyguards - sturdy and stolid.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Stan clenched his fists around his knuckle dusters.

“One a’ these - f-fine young men was wondering about a Stan Pines, maybe went by the name ‘8-ball’ at some point?” Fiddleford stuttered. He was worrying the apron front between two thin fingers. “I told ‘em there’s two Stans here, not sure if they believe me,” he laughed nervously. One of the men at the door gave Fiddleford a crushing look. Fiddleford gulped and clutched his apron with both hands.

“That’s the one,” one muttered to the other. With a nod, the two men moved towards Stan and Ford as a unified, solid front.

“Hey now, fellas -” Fiddleford stammered, but they didn’t listen.

Stan’s muscles were frozen ice. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The tendons in his hands were pulled taut in his fists as he watched the goons head for what _should_ have been him, but instead was his brother, wearing the wrong face and the wrong record. Uncomfortable, with one pinky finger sticking out beyond the rest of his hand that was surrounded by golden-bronze brass, he raised a fist as Ford stumbled backwards.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa -” Ford started, but Stan was faster.

“Get away from him!” Stan shouted. He threw a brass-knuckled punch into the shorter man’s cheek. It connected with fervor, sending the man swinging, a cut slicing down his face. Beside him, the other goon stood straighter.

“You think you can outrun your dues, Pines?” He growled.

“Ford, back the fuck up,” Stan muttered. “Back up.”

“What - wait -” Ford managed, breath coming out halting and confused.

“Rico got what he asked for,” Stan frantically spat out. “I don’t - I mean, Stan doesn’t owe him shit!”

The shorter man was straightening out now, clutching his bleeding cheek, coming up to back his partner again. “What happened to that firecracker mouth of yours, huh, Stan? Just hiding behind this guy now?” He gestured to Stan.

Predictably, Ford said nothing. How could he? He had no idea what was going on.

One of the goons brought a swift knee to Stan’s stomach.

“Stan!” Ford shouted.

Stan almost barrelled over, but not quite. He stuck it out, forcing himself to stay on his feet, readying his two fists. A garbled cough cleared his lungs. Without a second thought, he swung out another punch. And another. “How the fuck did you even find this place?”

The one that wasn’t fielding his punches stepped past Stan. “A little bird told us.” And then a glint of steel in the man’s hand caught Stan’s eye. That was a knife.

“Ford -” Stan choked out, trying to warn him, losing his rhythm. The guy in front of him got in a good counter kick, and Stan tripped backwards onto the hard wooden floor. He scrambled to get up, avoiding jabs from the man that had gotten him down. Ford was no longer in his sight. Fuck.

A solid thwack sounded behind him, and he prayed that it wasn’t Ford getting beat up over there. With a surge of energy, he kicked the goon off of him. Red anger lit up his veins with a dull fire. If Ford had gotten hurt, Stan would not - could not - forgive himself. He pummeled the guy. Continuously. Until he was on the ground, and probably not about to get back up again for at least a little while. For a second, he watched vibrant blood trickle down the man’s cheeks.

Quickly, Stan whipped his head around, almost falling down in his effort to stand again. “Ford!”

Miraculously, even in a foreign body, Ford was holding his own. Sloppily, and nearly failing, but he was doing it. Even with the flash of metal that kept attempting to dance between Ford’s ribs.

“No, no, no,” Stan breathed out, starting to run over, only managing to think about the fact that Ford was never as good at boxing as Stan was. They had gotten so far down the hallway away from Stan - Ford looked tired - shit -

A loud, caterwauling shout pierced the air.

A blur of tan and blue shot out from the kitchen, holding something large and metal. With a rallying cry, Fiddleford smacked the flat end of a dirty, egg-crusted frying pan directly into the goon’s face. With a strong thud, the man collapsed.

“Oh,” Fiddleford panted. “Oh no.” His thin, bony arms went slack, dropping the pan to the ground with a painful clatter. He ran a hand through his bangs. They had become wet with sweat. “We… we oughta call the police.”

“No,” Stan muttered.

Fiddleford practically shrieked. “No?!” He walked over to Ford and let the man lean on him. Ford’s hands were shaking.

Stan painstakingly pulled off his knuckle dusters, rubbing at his sore and pinched hands. It would be neat to have a pair that actually fit Sixer. “That would just get us in trouble right now.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Fiddleford sighed, exasperated. “Just dumping them in the middle of the woods?”

Stan was silent for a telling amount of time.

“No,” Fiddleford firmly insisted.

Ford was still gasping for breath, his chest rising and falling too quickly. Stan’s heart sank into his feet. He cautiously approached his brother like one would approach a newborn fawn. “Hey, Ford, belly breaths, alright?” He waved a hand towards his own chest. “Up here is, uh, too tight, or whatever.”

“I think I… need to sit down,” Ford breathed.

Immediately, Fiddleford wrapped his arm around Ford’s. “I’m gonna take you to the couch, alright?” Mutely, Ford nodded, and they started making their way towards the living room. Fiddleford paused. “You alright, Stan?”

Stan shook out his hands and ignored the leftover spots of blood that had dotted the hallway flooring. They shouldn’t be there. “Yeah, I, uh… actually, I’ll drop these guys off at the police station.” He didn’t meet Fiddleford’s eyes. His everything hurt.

“You sure?” It’s something that Ford used to say to Stan often, but Fiddleford said it differently, with an edge that threatened to cut right through Stan’s bullshit. Maybe he wanted to know if Stan was serious about going to the police, or maybe he wanted to know if Stan was serious about being alright.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be back soon.” There was probably still rope in his car.

This all led Stan to dragging two unconscious men into the backseat of his El Diablo - he considered the trunk, but that would be an uncomfortable trip down memory lane. He tied their hands behind their backs and then tied them together by the waists for good measure. He also confiscated their knives (and hid them in the upholstery of his front seat, but no one needed to know that). For a moment, there was considerable weight to the idea of just dumping them in the woods anyways, but that just made him feel bad about lying to Fiddleford.

The police station was small and understaffed, and seemed to be chronically empty. There was one bored woman sitting at a desk when Stan walked in. She flipped a pencil back and forth between her fingers, and then tossed it straight upwards. It obediently stuck to the soft ceiling tile alongside a few other pencil darts.

Stan slid up to the desk. “Uh, hi, ma’am -” he coughed, playing it up into a hacking mess. He made sure to exaggerate his soreness, which wasn’t that hard when his muscles burned and his skin was too sensitive under his shirt. He then proceeded to spin a half-true yarn that would paint him in a sympathetic enough light that no questions would be asked, trying his best to keep his brother’s nerdy image together in his vocal patterns and word choice. Still, it was a total shock when the woman merely helped him bring in the men passed out in his car. Gravity Falls’ police force was something else.

Sunlight did nothing for his face. On the drive back, he angled the rearview to see ugly purple blooming where a fist had at some point made contact with his left cheek - Ford’s cheek, really. The sun had brightened it for all to see. He pushed the rearview back into place a little rougher than needed.

Silently, he pulled into Ford’s driveway. He treated the door handle like a live wire - shit, if it were actually a live wire, maybe Stan would no longer be living and breathing on this doorstep. Sure, that wasn’t how wires worked, but a man could dream. Seconds felt like long, agonizing hours as he crept to the living room.

“I’m back,” he called.

Fiddleford was sitting next to Ford on the couch. An unreasonable amount of books had been shoved to the floor to make room for actual human beings. At Stan’s voice, Fidds’ head shot up, but he clearly focused on maintaining a calm exterior. “How was it, Stan?”

“Well, those jackasses are no longer in our possession. The nice lady at the station cuffed ‘em.”

“Without any evidence?” Ford mumbled. He was twisting a cap on and off of a water bottle over and over again.

“I can tell a pretty good story, Sixer.” Stan’s bones ached. In another time, he would flop down onto the couch beside his brother, but things were very different - there was a college roommate and a fuckload of books and years of estrangement in the way. Stan didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in his pockets, wincing at the feeling.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes and gently prodded Ford further to the other end of the couch. Wordlessly, he looked directly at Stan and patted his other side. Stan tried not to bite his lip to shreds - he was borrowing it, after all - as he took the offer just as quietly as it had been made, sitting gingerly beside Fiddleford.

For a moment, no one looked at each other.

“Well, now Stan should _definitely_ come explorin’ with us, I’d say,” Fiddleford piped up. “Don’t want anyone gettin’ beat up on their lonesome.”

Ford groaned and put his head in his hands.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long!! the semester started and it's been super busy. enjoy!

“You are not in… the best of shape,” Ford puffed, with some strain on his voice.

“Yeah, well, what the hell is up with your, uh, elbows? They’re so pointy,” Stan retorted.

“Children, behave,” Fiddleford muttered from somewhere behind him.

Stan then immediately wanted to take it back. Their relationship probably wasn’t fit to handle the ‘dumb insult’ level of siblingry just yet.

“We just almost got stabbed and you’re making jokes about my elbows?” Dry exasperation hung off Ford’s words. “Never mind, that’s not relevant to the task at hand.”

“Sorry. I, um, I gotta say, I haven’t had this much stamina since high school, though. Uh, good on ya, Ford.” He cracked an uneasy smile in Ford’s general direction, never mind how it stretched the bruises on his face, and watched the water bottle sway to and fro off of Ford’s backpack clip to distract himself.

“Ha, thanks,” Ford managed, though he sounded tired in all senses of the word. “It comes with the field research I do.”

“You mean you always climb up mountains and whatever?”

“This is a _hill_ , Stanley, hardly a mountain. But I’ve done that before too.” Ford’s voice was cold. Stan’s body was not used to vertical motion in any way, shape, or form, and Ford could clearly feel his leg muscles getting tired while Stan marched along on Ford’s weirdly developed calves.

“Heh. Uh. Sorry.”

They kept trekking across layers of last autumn’s fallen leaves. Eventually, they reached the crest of the hill. Stan kept walking and bumped into Ford’s outstretched arm.

“Wait,” Ford muttered. “I think we’re close.” He slid his bag off his shoulders and rifled through it, eventually pulling up a stack of abused and dog-eared papers. Stan subtly backed away from him to give him space as he flipped through and pulled out one torn page in particular. Reading over it, he pulled out his journal as well and began comparing both sets of notes.

Stan wanted to laugh at the funny little picture of a gnome his brother must have drawn in his journal, but no one was in a laughing mood at the moment, so he kept his mouth shut.

After some consideration, Ford clapped his journal shut and returned the notes to their rightful place. With a grunt, he stood again and gripped the straps of his bag. “Alright, the Gnome Forest can’t be too far. Just down this ridge.” He murmured ‘let’s get this over with’ and started off, leaving Fiddleford and Stan no choice but to follow.

The steep decline kept everyone silently occupied with remaining upright. Grassy slopes descended into thick, close trees, their colors saturated and lively. Irregular branches stretched upwards and disappeared into blankets of leaves. Before anyone knew it, their path was shadowed and enclosed by layers upon layers of secretive branching tree growth. Stan scratched at his arm and subconsciously drew in on himself. It was colder here, and they couldn’t see the sun anymore. Various species, hues, and shapes of mushroom littered the roots of trees.

“Are any o’ these safe to eat, Ford?” Fiddleford wondered, briefly stopping to poke at a luminescent blue mushroom with his foot. It gently deflated in response, and Fiddleford backed away.

Up ahead, Ford waved a hand in a much less decisive way than the edibility of wild mushrooms should usually be discussed. “Some of them are, but most of them haven’t been tested yet. I wouldn’t try them, though; some poisonous species look very similar to their non-toxic counterspecies.”

Stan looked back as Fiddleford gripped the handle of his (now clean) frying pan tighter and moved on. When did he bring that thing?

Unseen wildlife snapped twigs and branches in the undergrowth. Resolutely, Ford pushed onward down the tunnel of foliage, tension tightening his shoulders.

With uncharacteristic quietness, Stan said, “Are you okay, Ford?”

Ford stopped, his boot imbedded into moist mud. In turn, Stan stopped too, and Fiddleford bumped into him with an apology. Ford turned around. “No. No, I am not.”

Stan raised his hands. “Whoa, hey, what’s wrong? I can - I can try to fix it.” They had tried to convince Ford that the gnome thing could wait another day, that they all needed to maybe sit down after that (and Ford especially, but no one would say it), but Ford had only been more certain that they needed to head out today. While Stan was known for his stubborn streak, Ford could also be painfully steadfast when he set his mind to it.

“What’s wrong?” Ford’s words rose in his throat like a restrained animal. “I’ve been neglecting my work! B - certain people will be upset with my lack of progress. We almost _died_ , and if we had, we would have been buried in incorrect bodies. I don’t want -” He took a deep breath. “That was terrifying. It’s good, though, that we’re going to make headway on this now. The quicker we get to the gnomes, the quicker we can get things back to normal. It’ll be fine.”

Back to normal. Stan’s assuming this phrase paints a picture without him in it.

“You sure about this, Stanford?” Fiddleford said. “I know we could all use a rest. You’re bein’ so insistent…”

“I know,” Ford said with resolve. “But there’s no use in waiting around another day. We have to do this now.” Without another word, he turned back around and kept walking, perhaps even more rigid than before.

Fiddleford and Stan traded glances and followed.

* * *

Ten more minutes of walking got them to their destination, and right now Stan was blinking a bit too quickly at the numerous tiny people gathered in the clearing that Ford and them had ended up at. ‘Course, Stan had believed Ford - what would Ford have to gain from lying about a bunch of little men wearing pointy hats? Knowing was one thing. Seeing a group of knob-nosed baby-sized creatures with disproportionate heads was another.

Once they had arrived, Ford had immediately cleared his throat and began imploring the living lawn decorations for help, because goodness knows Fiddleford and Stan weren’t fit to do it. Stan wasn’t smart enough to explain the intricacies, and Fiddleford - much like Stan - was struck dumb by the sight laid out before him. Ford seemed to regard the gnomes with distaste even as he explained the basics of the experiment to them.

“You sure those mushrooms didn’t do somethin’? Spores in the air, maybe?” Fidds whispered to Stan.

“If this ain’t real, it’s a real interesting trip, that’s for sure,” Stan replied.

A few feet in front of them, Ford finished his little speech. “In short, we would really appreciate your help.”

A beat.

“Wait, that’s it?” Fiddleford asked. “You sure you ain’t forgettin’ anything, Ford?”

Ford blinked. “Not that I - oh! Right. Disclaimers.” He coughed. “The experiment is very new and I can’t guarantee that the test subjects will be returned in the same manner as we received them, though I promise we will try our best, and as of right now I predict no permanent effects. No distress, other than, of course, the whole ‘switching bodies’ component.”

“Hmm.” A gnome with a bushy brown beard rubbed his chin for a moment. Every other gnome looked to him expectantly. “You guys have a problem with that?” Surprisingly, everyone shook their head, and one muttered ‘seems kinda cool.’ After a moment, the leader snapped his fingers and pointed a finger gun at Ford. “Sure.”

“Really?” Ford asked, incredulous.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “But! We’ll need something first. Or else, I’ll have to sic our latest gnome formation on you three. We’ve been working on a little wolf bit for months, it’s turning out pretty neat.” Behind him, the group of gnomes murmured in excited agreement.

“W...What’ll ya need?” Fiddleford quietly inquired, frying pan still in hand.

The leader gnome smiled. “A queen!”

Stan and Fiddleford blinked.

“Oh, of course,” Ford grumbled with exasperation. He turned around and gestured for his companions to come closer. The three of them huddled secretively.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Ford?” Stan asked.

“The gnomes are looking for a queen. I’ve encountered this before - they only accept human women.”

Stan made a face. “Uh, ew?”

“Now, Stanley, it is not our place to judge, merely to observe.” Ford paused. “Though I do concede that that is extremely weird.”

“Yeah, weird,” Stanley repeated. “And where are we gonna get a human woman at this rate? I’m in the body of a nerd, Ford, you’re useless at socializing, and Fiddleford…” He gave the man a glance. “Well, he probably grew up on a farm.”

“Hey!” Fiddleford protested with indignance. “It was a very nice farm, I’ll have you know.”

“Well,” Ford sighed, “despite the crudeness of Stan’s words, he’s technically right. It might be difficult for any one of us to convince a woman to fake-become a gnome queen.” He pondered for a moment. “Stan, could you maybe fall asleep and try to contact Bill? He might have some useful insight on making the most of this situation.”

Stan’s face suddenly fell blank. “I’m not doing that, Ford.”

Hidden heat, latent but now visible, rose to the surface. “Well, what do you want us to do?” Ford demanded.

“Wha - you _really_ don’t need that guy! We can figure shit out ourselves.” Stan’s amicable grip on both Ford’s and Fiddleford’s shoulders as part of the huddle started digging into both the men’s shoulders finger by finger.

“Uh…” Fiddleford made a quiet noise.

Oblivious, Ford yanked his arms away from his companions and anchored them by his sides, fists digging half-moon shapes into his palms. “What’s wrong with wanting a little help?”

“Uh, hm.” Fiddleford extricated himself from what was now Stanley’s death-hold. “Boys, I have no idea what the hell you’re arguin’ about, but why don’t we just tell the gnomes we’re stumped and go from there?”

Ford muttered something under his breath, but squared his shoulders all the same. “Alright. Good idea, F. At least then we’ll know whether or not they’ll take any other form of currency.”

Stan stewed silently, but turned around with the other two all the same. Now, all three of them faced the eager gnome population that had patiently stood there in silence.

“I deeply apologize, but we are not in a position to offer you a queen -” Ford started.

Stan butted in. “Except for this one right here!” He smacked Fiddleford solidly on the back. Fiddleford stumbled towards the gnomes with a confused “buh?” If Fiddleford were to turn around, he would see the perfectly-executed seller’s grin on Stan’s face.

“What!?” Ford exclaimed.

“Stan -” Fiddleford sputtered.

“Yep, she’s a little shy, but I’m sure you’ll grow on her,” Stan continued with confidence. “Unless that’s not enough for ya?”

The gnomes all looked to the bearded one. He smacked his knee. “Sold! We’ll take her.”

“Stan!” Ford was shouting now.

“Just hand me the cages, Ford, I know what I’m doing,” Stan muttered to him out of the side of his mouth. With reluctance, but not sure what else to do, Ford produced the collapsible specimen enclosures from his pack and pressed their handles into Stan’s waiting hand.

“To open them, you -” Ford whispered.

“I got it, Sixer, I got it.”

“...Don’t break them.”

Stan narrowed his eyes and turned away from his brother, flipping the enclosures open so that they became small mobile cubes of metal with doors. “Now that you’ve got your queen, who wants to be a part of ethically questionable experimental research?” Stan showed off his grin again and held out the open containers. Two gnomes in the front scampered into them almost immediately. With a deft flick of the wrist, Stan swung the cage doors shut. They clicked. “Thanks for your business, folks.”

Fiddleford was currently being carried by no less than ten gnomes, and struggling to escape. “I swear to God, Stanley, I will punch you in the damn throat -”

Loudly, the gnome leader spoke over him. “We swear to take great care of Her Highness, you two. She’s a catch.” He looked over to Fiddleford fondly as Fiddleford positively fumed.

“Great to hear. Gotta go!” Stan said despite Ford’s many protests behind him. He grasped Ford’s hand hard enough to bruise and tugged them both back up the hill, out of sight of the glowing, eerie gnome forest.

The minute they were safely out of reach of the gnomes, Ford painfully tore his hand from Stanley’s. “What the _fuck_ , Stan?!”

“No, I know it looks bad, but listen -”

“No! _You_ listen!” Ford raised his voice. “This is - this is only going to complicate things. How am I supposed to explain to Fiddleford’s wife that he is now _someone else’s wife?!_ ”

“Ford. Ford!” Stan shouts. “I was never planning on leaving him there. I’m not _that_ much of a prick.” Feeling the weight of the gnome boxes hanging off the handles in his hand, he asked, “Uh, can they hear us in there?”

“No. And even if they could, it wouldn’t stop me from yelling - I mean, _really_ , Stanley! What the hell!” When Ford got stressed, he always took to wild hand gestures and physical movement. It was something they both had in common with their mom, who neither of them had probably seen for a while now. Now, Ford’s hands were thrown into the air.

“I’m going back to get him, okay? That was the plan all along.”

“And how are you so sure that’ll work?” Ford crossed his arms.

“It will. And if it doesn’t, you don’t have to speak to me again, whatever. It’s not like you wanted to anyways, after this is all over.”

Ford backed off, fury dimming in his eyes. “Stan, that’s not…”

“Take these.” Stan thrusted the two metal enclosures towards Ford. They clunked heavily against each other. “I’m going back for Fiddleford right now. I might be gone for a little while, gotta wait for a free moment.”

Speechless, Ford automatically accepted the gnome carriers. Meanwhile, Stan was pulling two dark leather gloves from his back pocket and tugging them on. He always kept them on him - who knew when he would need to cover his tracks. Then, he pulled out a small closed switchblade.

Ford choked on air. “Stan, you’re not gonna -”

“Fuck, no, I’m not gonna stab the little shits. It’s for if they’re keeping him tied to anything. It’s just in case.” Stan flicked the blade open, inspected it, and returned it to his pocket. “Ford, they weren’t gonna bargain. They just weren’t. I could tell. And I don’t know jack about science, but I think we need these little gnome guys so that we can switch back.”

Even though Ford was clearly skeptical, he apparently chose not to say anything. Decisively, he said, “I’m going back now. I’ll… get started on these two.” He lifted the boxes by his side for emphasis. “You get him back.”

“Yup,” Stan replied tiredly. He then disappeared down the hill approaching the Forest. He had a mission.


	9. Chapter 9

Out of all of Stan’s less-than-ideal criminal-esque experiences, this one was the most… odd.

This wasn’t the first time Stan had to lie in wait for something before. And yeah, he wasn’t the most subtle person, but he sure as hell learned to shut up when needed. Shrubs and bush twigs poked him in the sides, and long weeds partially obscured his vision, but he continued to quietly keep an eye on the clearing he had found. Within it, Fiddleford sat on the ground, bound by both his hands and legs. 

The odd part of this mini-operation wasn’t Stan waiting someone out, it was more that the person Stan was waiting for was, incidentally, a tiny gnome. One that was currently brushing Fiddleford’s hair with a tiny brush. From what Stan could tell, she was a lady gnome and she kept babbling to Fiddleford about a queen’s duty. Fiddleford, to his credit, was listening obediently, but perhaps that was due to an internal mental breakdown.

“Oh! I’ll go grab the nail polish!” The gnome said, excited. She finally disappeared into the brush, thank God. But they didn’t have much time.

“Psst! Fiddlefitz!” Stan whispered from the leaves and thin branches.

“Ahh!” Fidds jumped, scrambling and straining against his restraints. “S-Stanley?”

Stan emerged into the clearing, trying not to rustle the surrounding underbrush. He made a shushing motion. “Yeah, it’s me. Hang on.”

Immediately, Fidds’ face contorted. “Stanley Pines, I cannot believe you put me through this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna get you out of it. Now can you shut up?” He grabbed the rope around Fiddleford’s wrists and pulled out his blade, which opened with a click. Fiddleford let out a little shout, and Stan sighed. “Why does everyone think I’m gonna stab ‘em? There are other reasons to have a knife on ya, y’know.” With a grunt, he cut through one set of restraints, then the other around the feet.

Fiddleford rubbed his wrists. “Well, the murder gloves didn’t help much, I’ll be honest,” Fidds muttered.

Stan just tugged off and pocketed his gloves, wiggling out the extra finger that had been shoved into the pinky of the five-fingered gloves. To be honest, he enjoyed their dramatic flair more than anything else, not that they haven’t been legitimately useful in the past.“Let’s just get out of here.” He hauled Fiddleford to his feet. 

“Yes, please. I’ve half a mind to never come up to this dinky lil’ ghost town ever again thanks to you two disasters -”

A sharp, shrill gasp cut Fiddleford off. Unhappily, they both turned to the source of the sound: the same gnome that had been doting on Fidds before. She had a rainbow of nail polish colors collected in her small hands, but they all fell to the ground. In a voice that was way too sad, she cried, “Are… are you running away?”

“Uh...” Stan and Fiddleford shared a look. The gnomes’ captive’s ropes were obviously slashed and pooled onto the ground. The circumstances were pretty clear.

Stanley grasped Fiddleford’s hand and without a second thought, they both booked it past the gnome, cutting out a haphazard path through the unkempt woodland plants. They ignored the gnome’s shrieks behind them.

“Are - are we really running the entire way back to Stanford’s house?” Fiddleford panted. “Criminy.” 

“Nah, just, uh, just till we’re outta the gnomes’ reach…” Stanley quickly grabbed at the trunks of small trees to haul himself up an incline, scratching his hands on rough twigs and jagged leaves. Fiddleford followed suit, similarly crashing through the undergrowth. They were both going as fast as they could.

“When will that be, you think?”

“Uh…”

An inhuman snarl burst out of the wilderness somewhere behind them. Tree leaves shook, and so did the ground.

“Stanley!” Fiddleford yelped in a distressed upward scale, evidently discomforted by whatever he saw.

“I’m not fuckin’ looking! Come on!” Stanley frantically continued pushing through the forest.

A loud human shout made him stop.

Stan turned around. Fiddleford had caught his foot on a tree root and slammed face-first into the litter of the forest floor. He probably scratched himself up a bit, maybe even broke his nose at that angle (which Stan had experience with, so he knew that it _sucks_ ). That wasn’t the most worrying part, though.

The most worrying part was the giant mass of writhing human-ish creatures bearing down on them through the gaps in between the tree trunks.

Oh, they’re just _gnomes_ , Ford had said. They’re like people! He had said. Well, he never said they could actually form a megabeast. True to the gnomes’ word, it vaguely took the form of a wolf. It even had fake teeth that gnashed and huge, deadly paws that dug chunks out of the earth with each step. But regardless of the impression of a wolf, Stan could still sort of pick out the gnomes, stepping on each other and crawling around each other.

It was hard not to synthesize what it would feel like to be thrown against a tree by that thing, hard not to conglomerate his lived experiences of violence with that unsettling… conglomeration. 

Perhaps a bit too roughly, Stan leapt forward and dragged Fiddleford off the ground. A howl of pain erupted from him, though, and Stan reluctantly slowed his pace for only a moment. “Can’t walk?”

“No, my, my ankle -” he tried to explain.

“Whatever. I hope Ford’s been goin’ to the gym lately. Please, for the love of God, don’t make this weird.” And with that, Stan hauled Fiddleford up into his arms. The man was surprisingly light, which Stan was thankful for considering that apparently Ford’s arms were much less impressive than the leg muscles he’d developed from walking the entire length of Gravity Falls’ forests and cliffsides.

With that out of the way, Stan ran.

It felt weird to have someone physically near Stan in any way, shape or form, especially for Stan to be responsible for them - people usually avoided him or tried to hurt him. Also, he was bridal-style carrying a guy, and slight shame wriggled in his gut, but what was he gonna do, drop the guy and leave him for dead in the middle of a high-speed woods chase?

His dad would probably want him to. But that thought was tiring, and old, and Stan needed to keep running.

He ran until the thick forest trees began to thin out, and he could see the outline of Ford’s shack. That was a bit after the sounds of a beast in pursuit gave up, but he wanted to be safe. Panting, he slowed to a walk through the scattered trees. 

“I… think I can walk a bit now,” Fiddleford murmured, wracked with anxiety and still clinging tightly in residual fear.

“Alright, cool.” Stan lowered his arms and deposited Fiddleford on the ground, where the man immediately hissed and removed pressure from his injured ankle.

“Actually, I’ll put an arm around ya, if ya don’t mind.”

Stan repressed some sort of internal rejection at the idea. “You can’t just hop over there?”

“Stanley.”

“...Okay, fine.” 

Fiddleford pressed his shaking fingers into Stan’s back, his arm resting heavy across Stan’s shoulders. Together, the two shambled towards the sight of Stanford’s home. They painfully climbed the porch steps in undeniable relief. That was where they broke contact, leaving each other’s body heat. The sun had lowered significantly since they went out, leaving behind a summer chill. Stanley held up a closed hand to knock on the front door.

“ _Christ_ , Stanley.” Fiddleford said. He opened the door and just walked in. Stanley followed.

“Stanford?” Stanley called.

“We’re back,” Fiddleford added, probably to inform Ford that Stan didn’t return without getting him.

Stanley spit a small leaf out of his mouth into his palm and let it flutter to the floor. Gross. His (Stanford’s) knuckles were criss-crossed in tiny nicks, red lines of scraped and raised skin. It was uncomfortable to look at for many reasons. He pocketed his hands and looked down at the floorboards.

“Stanford?” Fiddleford tried again, leaning against the wall with one hand.

“One moment!” Came Ford’s voice, somewhere deeper in the house.

“I gotta use the first aid kit again!” 

A pause. “Okay!” Ford affirmed.

Fiddleford nodded to himself, then looked in the direction of the living room, where the first aid kid had been left earlier that day. He was still leaning against the wall by the door, one foot hovering off the ground.

Stan rolled his eyes. “Come with me, nerd, I’ll help ya. Clearly Ford’s a bit involved right now.” And he didn’t want to be there to somehow mess it up, whatever it was.

To his surprise, Fiddleford snorted. “He was like that in college, too.”

“Like what?” Stan suppressed a contrary smile as he cautiously slid an arm behind Fidds’ back. Stan was supposed to be annoyed at his brother for his antisocial antics, not amused, damn it. 

“Oh, you know… invested. He would study something for days, always goin’ above and beyond. I had to remind him to eat sometimes.”

“Sounds familiar.” Stan didn’t know if that was bitter or not.

They slowly walk-hopped over to the living room couch, navigating around the stacks of books that would certainly hurt to accidentally stub a toe on. Once they both sunk into the welcoming couch, Stanley grabbed the kit and popped the lid open.

“Okay, uh, are you bleeding anywhere?” Stan started.

Fiddleford inspected himself. “Um. Got a scrape on my elbow, and uh, maybe somethin’ on my face?”

Stan looked up. There was a collection of scattered scratches from the forest floor across Fidds’ cheeks and face, but they all seemed to have barely broken the skin or closed up by now. His nose was the worst part, purple-y and swollen. The sight made Stan wince. “Um. Yeah. Actually, it’s not bleeding or anything, but your nose looks pretty fucked up.”

“Ah! Really?” He reached up to his nose and instantly drew his hand back with a small pained noise. “Shoot, that really _does_ hurt. Guess adrenaline’s pretty strong.”

“Um…” Stan leaned closer. “I don’t think it’s broken, but uh, I’ll be right back.”

Quickly, Stan ran to the kitchen, grabbed two bags of peas (why did Ford eat so many damn peas?) and returned to his immobile patient. It reminded him of entire days him and his brother would spend out on the beach, scouring the sands for mysteries or working on the boat, getting a few scrapes and bruises along the way. They would always patch each other up after their little misadventures. Stan wondered how Ford was faring with his own solo ventures into Gravity Falls wilderness without someone to help him.

“Put this on yer schnozz, would ya?” He tossed a hefty bag into Fiddleford’s lap with possibly unnecessary abandon. It landed with a solid thunk, frozen peas rolling around inside. 

Fiddleford gave him a dirty look. “Would it hurt ya to be gentle?” His annoyance was somewhat muffled by the bag of peas that he had immediately lifted to his aching nose.

Stan didn’t even halt for a moment. “I got some disinfectant.” He unceremoniously dumped it on a cotton wad and offered it to Fiddleford. “Clean up your elbow, I think you got some blood on the couch.”

“Stanley, I don’t have a free hand.”

“Then remove the ice pack for, like, two seconds, ain’t that hard.”

“No! It damn smarts!” Fiddleford protested. “I really bit it back there!”

“What, you want me to do it _for_ you?” He recoiled. He didn’t want to wipe down anyone’s anything ever, especially not a guy’s. (Unless his brother had gotten hurt - but no, don't think about Ford bleeding -) “What kinda man are you?”

“For fuck’s sake.” Fiddleford sighed, closed his eyes for a second, and opened them. “Just put a bandaid on this before I smear anymore blood on Ford’s stuff.” He muttered to himself, “though he’s done worse in our dorm.”

“Fine, you big baby.” Stan leaned in and cleaned off the scrape, staining the cotton balls with an impressive amount of blood. It didn't bother Stan, though; he wasn't squeamish anymore. Life would do that to you. Fidds really did remove a layer of skin on those tree roots. Carefully, Stan pulled out a patch bandage and smoothed it over the injury. “Gonna stop bein’ a girl about it?”

“Yes, Stanley, thanks,” Fiddleford deadpanned.

Without making eye contact, Stan backed up on the couch and pulled out a compression bandage from the kit. He tossed a pillow down that looked like it had been permanently bent into a certain shape from the weight of textbooks and journals. “Put your foot on that.” Despite his earlier qualms, Stan took care in easing off Fiddleford’s shoe. He then started wrapping the sprained ankle.

“You gotta secure it at-”

“Yeah, I know how to do this, but thanks.” Stan fastened the bandage to itself and let the foot rest on the pillow. He plopped the other bag of peas on top of it. “Alright!” Stan clapped. “Now you just gotta sit here forever.”

“Great.”

The couch springs creaked aggressively as Stan rose from the couch. “I’m gonna go see what Ford’s up to. Maybe he’s getting somewhere with this gnome shit.”

“Wait, don’t you gotta fix yourself up too?”

Oh. “Oh, haha. I forgot about that.” The words were hollow. He was used to leaving things unattended for a bit, or longer if he had to. The myriad stings of pain were familiar and had already bled into the background. With a pivot, he swung back around and sat right back down. What gave this guy the right to call Stan out on shit? They didn’t know each other. Reluctantly, Stan picked the first aid kit back up.

“Yeah.”

The disinfectant stung in the scratches on Stan’s hands. There was an instinctive urge to let them keep burning, to leave them uncovered without bandaids and keep bumping them into things carelessly, aggravating the scratches and slowing their healing. But these hands weren’t his, so he dutifully covered the worst ones with bandaids and made sure the area was clean. Better not pick at these scabs.

“Anything on my face? Bleeding anywhere else?”

Fiddleford shook his head.

“Alright.” The lid of the kit snapped shut. “If you’re good here...”

“Uh, w- hold it a second.”

What now? Stanley was two seconds from actually breaking this poor sucker’s nose.

Fiddleford was contemplative, unfortunately. “Just - I have a question for ya, if ya don’t mind.” He carefully weighed his words before he spoke. “You really think that bein’... emotional, expressive, you really think that that kinda thing is… bad?”

God, what was this conversation? “What do ya mean? I get angry all the time and I don’t hide it.”

If Fiddleford wasn’t currently holding an ice pack on his injured nose, he would probably have slapped his face in frustration. “No, just bein’ close to others. Needing help. Being open about your feelings.”

Stan blinked in disbelief. “Open about my what-now?” 

Fiddleford gave him a very specific look that Stan couldn’t decipher. “It ain’t a crime to be human, Stanley. It ain’t a crime to be…” He searched for a word. “Un-manly.”

Stan crossed his arms. "Well, there's advantages to not bein' a sissy."

“Bein’ a ‘sissy’ about some things ain’t insulting!”

“Yeah, well, it was in _our_ household. And it sure helped me out on the streets. You don’t know -”

“Wait, you lived on the _streets_?”

Oh, right. Ford and Stan never mentioned that part. Oops.

“Haha, wow, would you look at the time -” Stan checked his wrist, which did not have a watch on it - “better go see what Ford’s into before he falls into another dimension or something. Rest up, Fiddlenerd.”

Stan wasn’t even ashamed of how quickly he power-walked away.

The back hallway light was on, so Stan assumed that was the direction to go in. He lumbered down the hall, exhaustion finally catching up to him, his weight sinking into his feet. He pushed open the door to Ford’s office. Ford wasn’t there. A pile of papers obscured that terrifying statue from view, for which Stan was thankful for everyone’s sakes. Softly, he clicked the door shut and kept going until he hit the room he was staying in. The door was ajar.

With a nudge, the door groaned open. The ugly blue carpet was rolled out on the floor, and Stan’s stomach immediately rolled. “Sorry.” The word practically fell out of him, as if he had accidentally knocked something out of his pocket and onto the floor.

Ford was kneeling on the hardwood floor, deliberately distancing himself from the rug. He turned his head. “Oh, Stanley. Um… thanks?”

Stan shuffled in only a few inches past the doorway. “How’s this goin’?” He gestured to the two gnomes that were walking around on the rug, surrounded on all sides and above by a wire cage to restrict their roaming. It looked like some weird cockfighting setup, which Stan had never seen in the U.S., of course, because that’s illegal.

“It’s going much better than I thought it would, to be honest. Fiddleford helped me a lot with… _humanizing_ this experiment and keeping things as sane as possible, so I’ve been following his instructions - and admittedly I’m not used to doing things in pairs, but he definitely was an important component for this.” Ford subconsciously tugged on his ponytail. “I am actually uncovering a fair bit about the gnomes themselves, but that can wait for another day.” He scribbled something down on a notepad he had in hand, awkwardly gripping the pencil and focusing on the action of writing. It was weird to see someone struggle with five fingers. With all the trouble they got into when they were younger in part for Ford’s “oddity,” having that extra digit was as natural as breathing to him.

Stan repocketed his scratched-up hands.

“I honestly think this might work,” Ford continued to himself.

“They look like they’re about to beat each other up,” Stan pointed out. One gnome crawled up the side of the enclosure, and the other stood opposite on high alert.

“Oh, no, I just told them to move around for a bit without touching. Not sure why that one is climbing around, but I suppose he can do what he wants. They swapped right before you came in, actually! I’m amazed at how similar the process played out compared to our… situation.”

“You mean they got mad and pushed each other around?” Stan said with an attempt at a laugh.

Ford strictly informed him, “I asked them to rub their socks on the rug and make physical contact.” Oops. That probably wasn’t a good choice for humor.

“Shmebulock Senior,” said one gnome.

“Um, is that -” Stan started.

“No, that is _not_ Shmebulock Senior, at least not physically,” Ford answered. “So the swap is alright so far.”

The other gnome - the one not crawling around the cage - was examining his own limbs. “Wow, never knew Shmebulock was jacked.”

The two gnomes were then briefly subjected to questioning (with only one gnome actually answering) and tests from Ford, who dutifully kept them from touching each other in any way during the process. Stan watched the experiment silently.

“Okay.” Ford finished a wobbly sentence in his notebook. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like you to rub your socks on the carpet again and, once you feel sufficiently ‘staticked’, make skin-to-skin contact.”

One gnome said “Alright.” The other said “Shmebulock Senior.”

Stan settled down on the ground beside Ford with crossed legs and bated breath. The brothers looked on as the creatures followed the commands. When their tiny hands finally met, a slight crackle could be heard, and then both beings suddenly collapsed. They laid flat on the plush carpet with their eyes shut, unmoving.

Ford and Stan looked at each other, and then looked back.

Slowly, one arm of Shmebulock’s body began to rise. Then, he seemed to wake up, leaning forward to sit upright. Crossed eyes blinked open. The other gnome soon followed suit, prying his eyes open and holding his head.

The gray-bearded gnome - Shmebulock? - stood on two shaky feet. “Shmebulock Senior,” he said.

It had worked.

It had worked, meaning all Ford and Stan had to do in the first place was essentially the same thing that got them into this mess. Meaning none of what followed the swap needed to happen. Meaning that neither Stan nor Ford would have been so forcibly shoved into the details of each other’s current lives first-hand. Meaning a lot of things.

Stan didn’t know how to feel about that.

He stared at the two gnomes without really seeing them, feeling like he was miles away.

“It worked!” Ford shouted next to him. The words were distant and garbled, like through earmuffs. 

So Stan never had to reveal to his brother how abysmal his health was. He never had to put Ford in harm’s way from Rico. This hurt so bad. Why did it hurt so _bad_? Even after all these years, Stan still wanted his brother to think the best of him, and now maybe Ford never will. Not with what he learned about Stan from this… this apparently completely avoidable experience. 

His chest was tight and suffocating. He turned to Ford to say ‘let’s get this over with, huh?’ and probably also throw in a ‘wow, this room sure is dusty’ to explain the stubborn tears that seemed insistent on welling up behind his eyes. But… he stopped.

Ford was crying.

Pines men don’t cry. They just don’t - at least, not in front of other people. Stan hasn’t seen Ford cry since middle school, over a decade ago. And it was a little strange to see on Stan’s own face.

“Ford, you, uh, you okay?”

Ford wiped his face with both hands. He had just been crying, and his eyes were red-rimmed, but he actually sported a soft smile. “I’m fine, Stanley, let’s just…”

Seeing him like that jump-started something within Stan. “Ford. Hey.”

“...Yes?”

Stan didn’t want this experience to go to waste. Sure, they could’ve easily reversed this, negating every problem that arose afterwards. But Stan has no idea how that would have gone. Maybe they would be getting over their issues faster, or maybe they would never have somehow made it onto even slightly better terms. Regardless, they were here now. Stan swallowed down his pride. He swallowed down his fears, his self-doubt, and his guilt, and many other things that would definitely resurface later after their time in the underwater of his mind. For now, he just had caring - for his brother’s health and happiness, and for his own physical wellbeing.

And maybe, just a little bit, for himself.

So he rested a hand on Ford’s shoulder.

“Listen, before we do this, I just wanted to say… We’ll talk. Okay? About everything. Not just Bill or Rico, _everything_.” He saw Ford’s question in his eyes - who was Rico? - but they would get there soon. “And if you want me to leave afterwards, that’s okay. But I don’t want to leave things the way they were.” Stan finally couldn’t keep eye contact. “I never really did.” He wasn’t crying. Men didn’t cry, and anyways, it was actually dusty in here.

Ford said an emphatic “okay,” full of real truth and acknowledgement, and Stan released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Eventually, they were both shoeless and awkwardly rubbing their sock-clad feet on the rug.

“Okay,” Ford repeated decisively with a deep breath. “Ready?”

The air was electric.

“Yeah,” he sniffed inexplicably. “Sorry, guess I’m allergic to -”

Before Stan knew it, Ford tackled him in a hug, arms pressed tight around Stan’s rigid ones. The fuzz of static shocked their bodies, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to get out for SO many reasons. thanks for reading and waiting, and I hope it's alright.
> 
> I have a little scene I really wanted to include somewhere before they swapped back, but I just couldn't find a place for it - one of the places Stan applies to calls back, and Ford answers the phone for Stan while Stan tries to instruct him on what to say: 
> 
> "Just say I'm sick. Let's reschedule the interview."
> 
> "Uh… I have contracted an illness. Bye." Ford hung up.
> 
> Stan slapped a palm against his forehead.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the new tag!

Everything was silent in the living room - Fiddleford must’ve been getting some calm, well-needed rest on the couch. Poor guy.

“Fiddleford! Fiddleford!” Ford called.

Well, it _was_ calm.

Stan followed Ford out to the living room and punched him in the shoulder. “Come on Ford, the guy just got whipped by tree branches in a million different places. Give ‘im a break.”

“Huh? Whatzit?” Fiddleford muttered in half-asleep delirium. His face bore indents from the couch cushion. He opened his eyes and groaned, either out of pain or annoyance. “Where’s the fire, Stanley?”

“It’s not Stanley, it’s Stanford.” Ford thankfully lowered his voice this time. “The experiment worked!”

“What?” Fiddleford pushed himself up, the forgotten ice pack sliding off of his stomach and to the floor with a _thump_. “Y’all are - _you_ again?” He looked at the two men before him with wide eyes, as if he could tell who was in which body merely by looking at them.

 _Could_ he? What would differentiate Stanley from Ford like that? For all Stanley’s work honing his “tells” throughout his life, maybe some would always remain? Yeesh, good thing he wouldn’t have to pretend to be Ford for a prolonged period of time.

Ford sucked in air through his teeth, finally getting a good look at Fiddleford’s face. “Moses, you really hurt your nose out there.”

“Sure did.” With a wince, Fiddleford leaned down and replaced the ice pack on his face, though it had lost most of its chill by now.

Stan stretched a bit. Somehow, Ford took better care of Stan’s body than Stan himself did, and so his usual aches and pains were buffered by slightly more sleep and maybe a bit more food (that Stan had forced him to eat). Still, there was a persistent crick in his neck that could only be caused by Ford’s questionable sleeping locations. Also, his mouth tasted disgusting and his dentures were hurting his gums. He began to slip out - seemed the best time for it, let these two friends bond properly now that the traumatic supernatural body-swapping experience was over, yada yada. “Y’know what, I’m gonna grab another pack of peas for that-”

“Stanley, get your butt over here,” Fiddleford firmly ordered.

The order sent a ghost of a chill up Stanley’s spine. “Hey, I don’t follow orders, pal,” Stanley snapped, but then he actually saw Fiddleford’s expression, and shit… Fiddleford was just being friendly in a sorta unknowingly-discomforting way. Even so, Stan could tell that Ford had to hide a wince at Fidds’ tone as well. He sighed - “yeah, okay -” and made a resigned return to the couch. “What’s up?”

Surprisingly, Fiddleford stuck out his hand.

Stanley stared at it, at the lanky arm linking it to this strange man. What a bony dude. Was this guy getting enough protein? Nevermind, obviously not his problem. “What? You need somethin’ from me?”

Ford laughed, because apparently he couldn’t help himself.

Stanley was countered with an eye roll from Fidds that rivaled his own. “You never seen a handshake before, Pines?” Fake annoyance gave way to a genuine friendly smile. “Just wanted to say I’m happy to be makin’ your acquaintance again, in the right form this time.”

“Oh.” Stan blinked. It’s honestly amazing how fast Fiddleford encouraged trust from Stanley in such a short period of time. Still, his mind instinctively poked and prodded at the handshake, and he had to wave that off, to remember that some people really do just want to be nice. “Well, sure.” He took the man’s hand in his own - five-fingered and smeared with Ford’s ink stains - and gave it a firm shake. “You’re not half-bad, Fiddleford.”

“My actual name?” Fiddleford withdrew his hand to gently pose it on his battered face in shock. “Why, Stanley, you do care! Really, though, it would be mighty nice to have another ice pack right about now.”

“Got it, Fiddlesuck.”

As he searched the freezer for more frozen foods, he heard Fiddleford give Ford a very enthusiastic welcome. “Nice to see ya again, I was gonna say you’ve really grown up a bit since college, but I decided to wait until you were in your own body to bring it up!” Stan closed a hand around some frozen bag of vegetables and smiled. Maybe isolation was doing neither him nor Stanford any favors in the end.

* * *

It was bittersweet.

Changing into a spare set of his own clothing called attention to the patterns of his skin. Thin strips of whites, purples, and reds on the body - the vehicle - that he and other people saw fit to hurt. Contradiction bubbled forth in the way pulling jeans over raised scar tissue was both new and achingly familiar. But like always, he zipped the fly, buttoned the jeans, and got on with himself, for now.

The rug had been rolled up and promptly disposed of in mysterious ways. Stan had suggested a good old-fashioned bonfire, but for whatever reason, Ford was hesitant. It _was_ an impressive scientific feat, after all. Still, Ford assured that he got rid of it properly in his own way, and that was that. He still got to keep the blueprints and notes on it anyways.

Long planks of naked wood creaked underfoot as Stanley crept into the room with the couch. Or… was it really _his_ room, now? “His” room, implying that there was another person in the house that claimed their own room. For so long he had been sleeping in tiny motel rooms or in his car, or even outside his car when necessary. This spare room was something he was borrowing from Ford. But maybe he wasn’t borrowing anymore. He was sharing with family.

He curled the throw blanket around himself with an unstoppable smile that unfurled on his face. He could stare at the criss-cross plaid blanket covering his torso and legs for ages. After a quick look up to the geometric window framing the night sky, Stan closed his own eyes and felt the couch soothe his own body’s complaints. Itchy locks of hair scratched at the back of his neck, but didn’t make him feel so bad anymore. It was his hair, damn it. It wasn’t girly. Or maybe it was, but… whatever.

The bliss of sleep began to tease him, pulling him under with wonderful emptiness - no threats of a yellow demon souring up the place. There was no way that thing could get into his head anymore. He was safe.

But Ford wasn’t.

Stan’s eyes flew open.

The floor protested again. Stan pressed urgent footsteps into its boards. He slipped across the hall to his brother’s office. Sickly-yellow lamplight spilled past the crack of the office door and across the hallway. Where it didn’t stain, there were only shadows.

“Ford?” Stan opened the door further.

“Yes, Stanley?”

Thank God. He was still awake, scribbling something down in that journal of his, cross-referencing loose-leaf notes that threatened to topple off of his desk.

“Nothing. Uh… did you let those gnomes go?”

“Yes, I checked their vitals and they seemed just fine, so I let them scamper off into the woods to do their thing.”

“Good.”

Ford stopped writing. “Did you… need anything?” New hesitance crept into his voice.

“No. Well.” Stan stuttered. “I actually wanted to ask you some stuff. Important stuff.” A beat. “About this Bill character.”

The pen scritching sounds stopped. Ford gently placed the pen down and stood. “Let’s go into the kitchen, okay, Stan?”

Stan feared the look Ford would have on his face, but when Ford turned around, it was with a tired but willing smile and a firm clap on Stan’s shoulder. “I’m going to need coffee for this,” Ford said.

“Alright. Uh. Sure.” People haven’t been so agreeable about a volatile subject with him in ages. Stan followed him through the quiet hallway and into the kitchen. The windows showed only pitch black, and Stan settled down at the table as Ford started his coffee. With Fiddleford off to sleep, it was just the twins and their thoughts.

Stan’s stupid thoughts, especially. Stan stared at the grain of the wood table. A few feet away, hot coffee poured into a mug. Then Ford sat down with him.

They both looked at each other.

Might as well just start. “I was about to go to sleep, and I was like, ‘man, I’m glad I don’t gotta worry about Bill anymore.’ But then I realized what that means.” Stan rubbed his thumb against the grain. “That you gotta do that instead.”

“I…” Ford took a deep breath. “I don’t see my relationship with Bill as ‘dealing with’ him. You have to understand.” Ford opened his hands, trying to convey something. “He’s like a muse. He’s been very helpful and even inspiring with my work. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

“But Ford -” Stan bit his tongue. He wanted to say exactly what he meant to say. “I recognize his tactics. To get me to do what I wanted, he tried to manipulate me. I don’t know if he was right, but… he tried to convince me that you didn’t want me here and that I don’t deserve your company. Which, unless my brain is _not_ just being mean and actually guessed right that you don’t want me to be here -” he paused, hands frozen in the air, open palms gesturing to his brother.

“I do want you here,” Ford nodded slowly.

“- right.” He let his hands drop to the table. “Then he was deliberately preying on my insecurities. Are you sure being around someone like that is something you want to keep up? What if… what if he’s hurting you too?”

“Well…” Ford scratched his cheek and took a sip of his scalding coffee. “He does seem to linger on his importance to my success, but - no, I would know if he were manipulating me, as you say.”

Stan could really go for a cigarette right now. “How do you think those goons that showed up knew where I was?”

Ford blinked at the sudden turn in conversation. “They followed you?”

He shook his head. “No way. Rico’s good, but he doesn’t work _that_ fast. I travelled pretty far to get to you. I was guaranteed to be safe for a good while, maybe even lose him for good. But Bill said something in my dream the night beforehand that, now that I think about it, sounded like a threat.” Stan ran a hand through his hair, glad to feel familiar strands under his fingers now. “He said that ‘whatever happens next’ wouldn’t be his fault. And then... they showed up.”

“You… you don’t think that Bill told these men where you were? Endangered me, just to get to you?”

“I think he did. I have no idea how else they would’ve known! I think he was thinkin’ of getting me outta the picture, either through injury or through intimidating you into makin’ me leave. Showing you how much trouble I’d be…” Stan sighed. “He kept talkin’ about how much of a problem I am for you. I’m sorry.”

“What - you are _not_ a ‘problem,’ Stan. You’re a person.” Ford looked away. “And I should’ve seen that sooner.” He looked back at Stan, some sort of emotion on his face that Stan couldn’t decipher. “Sure, you somehow lured goons to my house, and that was _terrifying_!” His laugh wasn’t all that humorous. Stan winced. “But you don’t deserve what happened to you.”

You don’t deserve what happened to you.

Stan blinked away a tear beginning to form. “Thanks Ford. And I don’t want something bad happening to you like it did to me.” He picked at a hangnail. “You want to know how I know so much about bein’ manipulated?”

Ford’s face was carefully neutral. “Tell me, Stanley.”

He shut his eyes and let out all the air in his body. “This Rico guy I’ve been talkin’ about did the same to me.”

“But -” Ford exploded with energy. “The guy sent literal _goons_ after you, how could you have ever thought he was okay to be around?”

Stan let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I keep asking myself the same question. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“I didn’t mean -” Ford stammered. “ -keep going.”

He leaned his arms on the table and avoided eye contact. “I was pretty desperate at the time. For money, company, anything. I was pretty lonely and down on my luck. That’s when Rico popped up. He was real nice, givin’ me a place to stay as long as I worked for him.”

“Doing what?”

“Uhhh,” Stan pretended to have a hard time remembering, even though he could recall the details a little too vividly. “Carting drugs across countries? Yep, I think that was it.”

“Oh my God, _Stanley_.”

“Yeah, crazy, right?” He laughed nervously. “But he always played me up. Telling me how good I was at my job -” _and how pretty I was_ , but Stan would never mention that part - “and that he liked havin’ me around. I was lonely, so I soaked it up. It was the first positive attention I had gotten in ages. I didn’t even mind that he kept saying he was the only person that would ever put up with me.” His countenance darkened. “Until I fucked up, and lost him a lot of money on an order. Then I had to run. I owed him some big money, Ford. So I became shit on his shoe.”

Ford inched his hand out to the center of the table and forced himself to ask Stan to hold his hand. For once, Stan wordlessly took it.

“You know what’s fucked up? Even after all that shit I went through, I still missed him. Even when I was running from him.”

“You missed how nice he was to you,” Ford stated.

“Yeah. He really stroked my ego.” Stan couldn’t bear to look at his brother.

Cogs were clearly turning in Ford’s head, but he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he silently rubbed his brother’s hand with his thumb. Above them, the kitchen light flickered once.

Stan felt the way his ill-fitted teeth cut into his mouth. “I have dentures at 26 ‘cause I chewed my way outta the trunk of a car after Rico caught up with me once.”

Ford yanked his hands back as if burned, dropping Stan’s in the process. “You _what_?”

“Yeah, it was nasty, what else can I say? Really wrecked my teeth beyond repair, and combined with how fucked up they already were, they were all just shot to shit. I didn’t always have access to a toothbrush and hadn’t been to a dentist since we were kids so I was in pretty bad shape.” Stan rested his face in one hand. “I didn’t even pay the doctor once I got my dentures. I just bounced.”

A horrid scraping sound screeched against the floor - it was Ford’s chair. Without a second’s hesitation, Ford walked around the table and pulled Stan into a heavy-hearted hug. “I’m sorry, Stan.” His voice wobbled. “I’m sorry so many people have failed you.” Anger stiffened his tone.

There definitely wasn’t a similar waver in Stan’s own voice. “Who failed me? I -”

“Dad failed you. The school failed you, for thinking you weren’t worth it. And…” He pulled back and put his hands on Stan’s shoulders, forcing him to look Ford in the eyes. “I failed you. I don’t know if I could have stopped you from getting kicked out. You know how dad is. But I could have got in contact with you if I tried, and at least checked in. I just didn’t.” Ford drew his arms inward to hug himself. “I was just so mad, and - and so tired of not truly being treated like my own person. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. You really needed support.”

Stan stared at Ford. “I… that means a lot, Sixer.” A few tears finally slid down his face. “T-Thanks.” He looked down at his calloused five-fingered hands that rested in his lap. “An’ I was _scared_ to be treated like my own person. I thought I needed you to - to exist, I guess. And I shouldn't have taken that out on you, either. Even though the experiment was an accident. I could’ve told you what happened before the fair. We could’ve fixed it together.”

The hand Ford rested on Stan’s shoulder was reassuring. “Well. We’re fixing this now.” And he smiled warmly, with hope.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah.” Stan returned the gesture earnestly. “You see what I mean? About Bill. If he is the way I think he is - it won’t end up good for you, Ford.”

Something was turning over and over in Ford’s brain. A spark of recognition - of understanding - began to shine in his eyes. He walked back to his seat, sat down, and took another sip of his coffee. He stared into it, trying to find answers that he probably wouldn't find. “Bill is, quite simply, a genius. He validates my work and tells me that I’m going to change the world.” He demonstrated this broad concept with a similarly broad hand wave. “It would be… hard to let go of that.”

“I know,” Stan responded. “Believe me, I know. But it’s like I’ve been saying. You don’t need some wacky dream demon dressed up in evening wear to tell you that you’re gonna do great stuff. You already know. _I_ already know.” He leaned back in his chair, emotionally and physically exhausted. His eyelids slid shut for just a moment. “What’s he even helping you with, anyways?”

Ford fiddled with his mug, circling the rim with a finger. “Well, there have been talks of an interdimensional portal…”

Automatically, Stan’s eyes snapped open. “I’m sorry, a what.”

In lieu of answering, Ford just kept drinking his coffee. “I don’t know if I can tell him to end this by myself. It sounds stupid, but…”

Okay, shaking off the ‘interdimensional portal’ business for now, then. “No, Ford, listen, I get it. You’re dependent on him, right?” Stan said softly. “He’s bolstering you up so that he can get what he needs from you. I think I recognize it.”

“I…” Ford shut his eyes. “I think you’re right.” He smacked the table with a palm. The bang was loud in the quiet of the night. “What the hell have I been doing all this time? What’s wrong with me?”

Stan shrugged. “Nothin.’ Master conman, remember? He just... got you to trust him.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose.” He calmed, clenching and unclenching the hand that had hit the tabletop.

“So you wanna end your partnership or whatever. How do we do that?”

Ford rubbed his chin. He only had to think for a moment before he abruptly stood. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!!! Sorry for the wait! Finals and holidays and life happened. The ending to this chap is a bit abrupt because it was the best spot to cut it off at.
> 
> thank you for reading and continuing to read my story <33


	11. Chapter 11

Apparently, whatever Ford had left the extremely awkward kitchen table to look for - he didn’t find it immediately. So Stan followed him into his office and let him babble his head off.

This journal of Ford’s was quite a sight to behold. They had both dipped their toes in artsy-fartsy stuff as kids, but Stan was impressed at Ford’s willingness to make and bind an entire book by hand. Yeah, the cover was dramatic, but it really suited the scale of the mind-bending, magic-ing work he was actually doing. Ford was now flipping through his incomplete journal to no avail. Soft moonlight caught the turning of the pages, and numerous lamps splashed the paper stacks and Ford’s coat in a menagerie of random orange-yellow lighting.

“So you’re saying you can go into people’s minds? And walk around like it’s just some normal place?” Stan stood back, observing the scene in front of him. Exhaustion stung his eyes. He was also catching the post-caffeine-high downward spiral that Ford would have gone through instead if they hadn’t switched back earlier that day. But he was more than used to disobeying his bodily signals by now, so he simply watched Ford pace. Ford was, as expected, fully awake after his fresh cup(s?) of coffee, defying the physical evidence on his face that pointed to sleep deprivation. They both seemed to be experts in neglecting sleep. Stan frowned to himself.

“Yes, but it isn’t that simple. You must put your hand on my head and recite certain words. And with this spell, you can join me in my dream and… help me talk to Bill.” He split his tone between grateful and worried, and busied himself with skimming through his journal again. He cleared his throat. “I must say, I really do appreciate this, Stan.”

“Yeah?” Something about that really struck his heart. “I’m happy to help, Sixer. Really.”

Ford’s quick glance up at his brother was full of genuine emotion. “Thank you,” He said softly. The third look through his book was proving just as fruitless as the last two. “However, I can’t find my notes on the subject… this problem is exactly why I started a journal in the first place.” Frustrated, he snapped his journal shut and handed it to Stan. “Could you please hold this for a second?”

Surprised, Stan fumbled the book into his hands. “Sure.” He gripped it like it was a precious gem. And maybe it was. Ford was fucking smart. That Bill guy most likely didn’t mean good things when he told Ford about changing the world, but that didn’t mean Ford couldn’t do something on such a large scale that the planet reeled from it. Stan could see it easily. “What’re you looking for? Maybe I can help,” he offered tentatively. Their previous conversation still lingered delicately in his limbs, but not in a bad way. He was just… off-center. And lighter than before. Maybe talking to people was actually, y'know... good? Not that he would give Fiddleford the satisfaction of saying so.

“Actually, yes, that would be a great help.” Ford lifted a heavy-looking pile of papers off his desk and dropped them to the ground. “Thanks, Stanley.”

Stan lit up at the simple allowance to help. He tucked the journal under one arm and waded into the hellscape that was the office - a tornado of books, texts and forgotten notes.

“I’m just looking for the notes I took on a spell a creature told me once. I believe I titled the page ‘mindscaping?’ I really must start compiling my work. Comprehension is essential, after all.”

“Yeah, how else are you gonna be able to properly tell the whole world about…” Stan scooped up some papers that crunched under his feet. “Quentin Trembley the third, the forgotten 8-and-a-half president of the United States?” He squinted. Was this a code or some shit? Suddenly, the papers were snatched out of his hands.

“That’s just a theory!” Ford insisted, sheepish. “I’m not too sure about it.” He immediately crumpled up the papers and shoved them in a nearby desk drawer. In the process, he knocked down the small desk statue of That Triangle Thing. It clattered loudly to the bare flooring. The idol had more than enough angles on it to wobble impressively, clinking and clanking against the wood.

Stan and Ford just stared at it. It rocked back and forth. After three or so rocks, it stopped.

Creaking came from somewhere else in the house. A sleepy Fiddleford had hopped over to the doorway. He peered his head in. His strawish head of hair floated all over the place, highlighted by the scattering of side lamps strewn about the office interior. “What the hell are you boys doin’ makin’ such a racket at this hour?”

Stan and Ford tore their eyes away from the statue and craned their necks to see Fiddleford.

“Um. Nothin’ that important, Fidds, go lay back down,” Stan automatically supplied. He wondered if he was blocking Fiddleford’s view of the statue, and also whether or not the state of Ford’s office mirrored Ford’s treatment of their old dorm. If so, Fiddleford might not be so surprised that a bunch of shit was literally everywhere.

“If I get woken up in the middle of the night by so much rustlin’ I at least want to know what it’s about,” Fiddleford countered. “I got a fair amount of travelin’ to do tomorrow, if y’all don’t remember.”

Right, he was heading home tomorrow. Stan was about to force the poor man to give his ankle some more rest, but Ford raised a hand.

“Wait. You might be able to help us out with something very important. Or at least, important to me,” Ford said.

* * *

Six-fingered hands flattened out the parchment that they had finally procured from the office deathtrap. It threatened to roll back up, but Ford stuck two empty coffee mugs on it so that it wouldn’t close up and roll off the living room table.

“So, y’all are gonna perform magic and I jus’ need to be here to… keep an eye on things?” Fiddleford questioned. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his leg resting on the seat of another chair. His free leg was bouncing anxiously.

“Yes,” Ford responded seriously. “We need someone on the outside that can follow us in if anything goes wrong.” He stopped his intense study of the Mindscape notes and blinked. “Wow. We were about to just do this in the middle of the night without any supervision. Good thing you woke up, huh, Fiddleford?”

“Yep, good thing,” Fiddleford deadpanned.

“So, Stan,” Ford moved on.

“Huh?” Stan stopped fiddling with his hands. He was sitting at the table as well, watching Ford devour the spell with his eyes. It was very easy to scratch up and down his arms with nervousness, especially now that he had his own arms and felt the familiar dips and occasional scar tissue.

“Bill will probably enter my dreams tonight. Especially because he’s most likely upset with me, and hasn’t seen me for some time…” Ford faltered. Quickly, though, he fell back into his ‘explaining stuff’ voice. “When Bill visits me, I enter REM sleep much faster than average. It will only take me five or so minutes. Once you see that my eyes are moving even while they are shut, you must put your hand on my head and recite these lines.” He pointed to the string of words written in the strongest font on the paper.

It was hard to read. Stan leaned in. He could speak Spanish pretty well, but he was pretty sure this was Latin. “Uh… what if I can’t pronounce it right? Would that fuck it up?” He was always bad at that sort of thing. His mouth dried out. Fucking up while doing something magic was probably worse than fucking up while doing something mundane and boring, like yelling at a science fair project or transporting packages for a drug dealer.

“The pronunciation won’t be a problem for this spell. According to my source and some of my notes on similar magic, the will of the speaker and the content of the words matter more than that sort of error.” Ford dismissed the concern with a hand wave.

“Oh.” Stan almost smiled at the idea that _something_ out there didn’t give a shit about how educated Stan sounded. “And I put my hand, uh, anywhere on your head?”

“Yes. The placement doesn’t matter. But only do so if I enter REM sleep rapidly. Otherwise, call the whole thing off and we’ll try tomorrow, because that would mean that Bill is taking a night off for whatever reason.”

“Alright.” Stan looked down at the spell sheet and tried to fit his mind around the foreign words. _Vid-ent-us omn-i-um. Magister_ \- was that _g_ hard or soft?

“Goodness, I really thought the body-swapping was the whole of it,” Fiddleford muttered.

They had really only given Fidds the barest of bones in explanations - a dream demon helped Ford out but it's kinda bad and we gotta go into Ford’s brain to stop it. Stan felt bad, but he really had no idea how to explain this to the guy, and they wanted to get this started while Ford was tired enough to sleep. So here they were. Maybe Ford would tell Fiddleford more later.

“Magic is vast and expansive,” was Ford’s response. “Also, it can be terrifying.” He turned to Fiddleford. “You heard my explanation to Stan, correct? If anything seems to go wrong, anything at all, follow those directions. Alright?”

Fiddleford swallowed once and gave a serious nod.

“Alright!” Ford clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road!” With a sense of excitement that could have been true or just as easily a front, Ford climbed into the sleeping bag that he had set up on the kitchen floor for this purpose. If Stan didn’t know better, he would worry that Ford wouldn’t be able to fall asleep there. Thankfully, he had the residual neck pains to prove that it was possible.

“Maybe you need just one more cup of coffee before you head to bed, Sixer.”

“Stanley, I am going to need you to shut up.” Ford resolutely shut his eyes.

Stan snickered to himself only a little bit. It didn’t last long. He soon fell silent, and spent a few more minutes trying to understand the ‘mindscaping’ notes. Fiddleford picked up a book that he had brought out with him to pass the time, since they all had no idea how long this would actually take.

Finally, after Stan traced his brother’s familiar handwriting on the parchment paper for what felt like the millionth time, he heard a slow shift in Ford’s deep, restful breathing. He looked over and spotted the telltale sign - eyes moving beneath the eyelids. “Alright,” he near-whispered. “Guess I’m doing this.” Carefully, he removed the mugs from the parchment and brought the paper down to the floor with him. His brother’s eyes danced quickly.

Trying not to tear the paper with how tight he was worrying it between his fingers, he knelt beside Ford’s head and pressed one palm to it. And if his hand was sweaty, Ford could fuckin’ deal.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Videntus omnium. Magister mentium. M… magnesium ad hominem. Magnum opus. Habeas corpus. Inceptus Nolanus overratus. Magister mentium…”

Now he was just repeating the magic mentos line over and over. It made him a bit lightheaded.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fiddleford raise one eyebrow. “Habeas corpus?” the man questioned.

Stan couldn’t respond, though. He was fast asleep.

* * *

A cloudy gray sky greeted his eyes. It smelled like nature and grass. Stan was laying in a wheat field.

With a sharp intake of breath, Stan shot up. He received a faceful of grass stalks. On the defensive, he stood and surveyed the area. The wheat was healthy and tall - so tall that Stan had to push it out of his way to walk. Far away from him, he could barely make out tall-ish sedentary objects standing in the fields.

Where was he?

The aimless and seemingly endless environment reminded him of those times when he wandered through the American deserts - some good times and very many not-so-good ones. Even so, this was entirely different in almost every way. It smelled familiar, somehow. Like home, even though Glass Shard Beach wasn’t anywhere near any expanses of wheat. Like a piece of art that you connected with for inexplicable reasons.

Eventually the wheat field stopped at a hard line, where he was spit out onto regular ol’ grass, and what he could finally see clearly was… interesting.

The Stan O’ War stood proudly someplace off in the distance in the middle of the wheat field. It looked neglected, but a bit better off than Stan expected a wooden ship to be after almost a decade of abandonment. Closer to Stan, but still buried within the depths of the grasses, was the old swing set they used to visit all the time back home. It looked like someone had replaced the rusted old chains holding up the swing seats, and reinforced them with a vinyl chain covering. Stan was no expert on the brain-scape or whatever, but he knew that Ford hadn’t seen that swing set in a long, long time, and that Glass Shard Beach probably didn’t invest enough fucks into actually repairing rickety old playground equipment like that.

The mind clearly does some weird stuff.

“Ford?” Stan called out, cupping his hands and hoping for his voice to reach even the amorphous, shifting wooded area that lay beyond the grass and wheat.

“Stan!” Someone shouted in response, but they sounded _young_.

“Uh…” Stan’s shoulders hunched. “Who’s there?”

Rustling emerged from the woods. Stan backed up, wishing he had his brass knuckles -

And poof, there they were, in his hands. Huh.

Only a tad bit reassured, he braced himself for whatever was charging through the undergrowth. What was this, some sort of inner demon situation?

Suddenly, someone tumbled out of the maze of pines. It was… a child? Not just any child. It was _Ford_. Young Ford, maybe ten or so, all springy and tiny.

“Stan! There you are.” The kid sounded relieved.

“Oh.” Well, wasn’t this just great. Could Ford maybe have given him some real directions before Stan popped into his mind? He looked down at the boy and swallowed down some unnamed emotion. “Uh. Ford, is that you?”

The child ignored the question. “Come on.” He slotted his tiny hand in Stan’s larger, fortified one. “I’m takin’ you to Stanford.” His accent was thicker in his youth, Stan realized.

“The real Stanford? So you’re _not_ him?”

“He’s meetin’ with Bill right now, an’ he needs help. This was the best way his mind could get you to him.” The clone once again didn’t answer properly.

“Wait, he thought a child was his best bet?”

The kid was dragging him along, towards the woods, where the shadows pressed along the ground.

“He’s scared. But he doesn’t like to act like it or ask for help. Not at your age. So the Mindscape sent me.”

“Oh… sure.” Stan’s heart sank. With all their fights in the past, they really did have a lot in common. Both scared and never wanting to show it. And terrible self-isolators. “But we had agreed on facing this together, I thought he was alright with it.”

“Yeah, I’m really happy to see you guys working together again!” So was this child actually Ford or wasn’t he? “But change is hard. Though since I’m here, it’s easy to see that _some_ part of his brain accepts the fact that he’s being vulnerable with you right now.” Kid Ford gave Stan an achingly nostalgic smile. It made Stan’s heart hurt.

Stan tried to mirror the smile, though he wasn’t as innocent and cheerful as this little kid. He tried regardless. “Yeah, I-I guess you’re right.” They were getting closer to the woods, and it sent off unexplained jitters under Stan’s skin. “I dunno if these creepy woods are a good idea though -”

“Hold on,” young Ford said. He pulled Stan into the thick forest, where the darkness felt solid around them and it smelled thickly of pines, and almost instantly everything was a sparkling, whirling blur. Many unidentifiable objects flew past them both. Light flashed intermittently.

With a _pop_ , Stan re-solidified and smacked his face into a large math textbook that was floating in the air with him. He groaned and pushed the offending material away. Ew, math. With the book out of the way, he could now see the twinkling, cluttered space that surrounded him. It was dark up here, and cold. Small Ford was gone. Many books and scrolls and scientific instruments drifted past.

Earth was nowhere to be found.

Stan shivered. He twisted nervously, scanning the space. There. A glowing yellow shape and a human speck that was worryingly small in comparison. But they were a bit far.

That wouldn’t stop Stan. He swam through the air, pushing himself. A microscope snagged the arm of his shirt. A stray book bumped him off course. A large, intricate hourglass with the top half near-empty of sand tripped his foot, sending him into a midair cartwheel. But he soon righted himself. This was important, damn it.

The closer he got, the more detail he saw in the alien brick-shape of Bill’s form, the fleshy texture to his hat and tie, the way his arms bent at odd angles and the way his eye was less eyeball-material and more skin-like. The creature was a massive tower of intimidating light. In comparison, Ford was about the size of the thing’s creepy foot.

Hell no. Not on Stan’s watch.

Bill was yelling something about deadlines and dead weight. Stan didn’t care. He was close enough now. He opened his mouth to yell a demeaning insult.

A heavy scroll was stuffed in his mouth.

“WELL, HEY THERE! NICE OF YOU TO JOIN THE PARTY! FORDSY DIDN’T TELL ME ABOUT HIS PLUS ONE, BUT I FIGURED IT OUT.”

The parchment clogged his throat. Stan pulled it out, but it took an unnaturally strong tug. He hacked and gagged.

Ford jumped at the sound and turned to see Stan. “Oh, good, you’re here!” Strong relief colored his voice. Something unseen pushed Stan the rest of the way, parking him right beside his twin. That seemed to rub Bill some sort of way - his yellow reddened slightly, but then released, and he was the same abnormal color he’d always been.

“GLAD TO SEE THE PEANUT GALLERY IN ATTENDANCE.”

“Oh, stuff it, you sad excuse for a triangle.” Stan crossed his arms. He was done with listening to this guy about anything, least of all his character judgements.

“Stan!” Ford hissed, as if they were back in high school and he had just mouthed off to a teacher. But no one had that sort of power over them anymore, so why was Ford acting like they were kids again, getting in trouble for pranking an adult?

“HA!” When Bill laughed, it was an uncomfortable reminder that this creature didn’t have a mouth. “NO NEED TO WORRY, SIXER, I THINK HE’S FUNNY.” His singular eye widened, straining at its socket. “AMUSING.”

“Hey!” Stan bristled. “No one gets to call him Sixer but me!” The protest left him as natural as breathing. That was _their_ word.

“WHY NOT?” Bill mused. “I AM AN UPGRADE FROM YOU, AFTER ALL. NOT SURE WHY SUCH A GENIUS WOULD KEEP SUCH AN IDIOT AROUND!”

Stan’s resolve weakened for just a moment. But he wouldn’t listen. Not this time. Someone who was likely hurting his brother didn’t deserve a second of his concern. “I’ll -”

“He’s _not_ an idiot! He’s my brother,” Ford interrupted. His face was flushed with anger.

Ford stood up for him.

Old memories tugged at Stan, reminding him of hot, burning days out on the boardwalk and two ratty kids that would never let each other get beat up. They had stood up for each other, then. Neither of them deserved to be treated like shit, and they both knew it. And they know it now, too.

Looking at Ford’s stern posture, full of firm resolve, Stan was smacked with New Jersey nostalgia even though he hasn’t been there in many years. Even though it was the first state he had X’d out on his car map. Even though he was dead-set on never going there again.

“Now, Bill.” Ford took a deep breath. “I appreciate all your help. Your insight has advanced many of my projects beyond my wildest dreams. But I cannot work with you anymore.”

The yellow glow flickered. “ARE YOU SURE?” With a dangerous edge, he said, “LOOK AT HOW FAR WE’VE COME WITH THE THEORETICAL CALCULATIONS!” A chalkboard was summoned to Bill’s side. It was covered in messy chalk lines - formulas and numbers and letters that Stan could never hope to untangle. A few solutions were frantically circled on the board, probably with excitement. “WE’RE _VERY CLOSE_ TO PHYSICAL PRACTICE, STANFORD.” Bill glowered. “I WOULDN’T GIVE THAT UP IF I WERE YOU.”

“Well, maybe I don’t _want_ to build a dimension-hopping portal! Maybe I just want to study this town’s oddities myself. You have been helpful, Bill, but I don’t need you. Even though you said I did.” Ford said it as if he didn’t actually believe the words until they came out of his mouth. He really didn’t need Bill. He never did.

That was - it was so important, and Ford had just said it, to Bill’s face. Stan couldn’t help his grin. He punched Ford’s shoulder good-naturedly, and Ford gave him an uneasy smile back - the kind that cautiously knew it was going to be okay.

“OH YEAH?” Suddenly, Bill was larger than life, expanding to fill up the inky cosmos. They were surrounded by nauseating yellow. “I THINK YOUR BROTHER’S MAKING YOU SOFT, SIXER.” He pinched Stan between his massive fingers. An alarmed gasp ripped out of Stan. Bill’s grip was strong. This was supposed to be like a dream, right? So why was Stan scared of actually getting hurt?

This was Ford’s mind. Ford could do something… right? But Stan turned to Ford - and saw that Ford was frozen to the spot. His skin was washed out with yellow neon that dug into the worry lines on his face. “Ford?” Stan asked with dread.

“Bill, what are you doing!?” Ford shrieked. Confused. Shocked. “Put him down!”

Bill shrank, but only a little - only enough to give the infinity of space some breathing room. He still towered taller than any human, and still held onto Stan with his spiderish fingers. “YOU’RE LOSING SIGHT OF WHAT’S IMPORTANT. THIS WORK - OUR WORK - IS MORE SIGNIFICANT THAN WHATEVER YOU’RE WORRYING ABOUT. AND WITHOUT ME, YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO DO SOMETHING THIS BIG, SIXER. WE BOTH KNOW IT.” He blinked. Images flashed through his eye faster than either of them could see. Bottomless knowledge. “I’VE SHOWN YOU WHAT I KNOW, WHAT I’M CAPABLE OF. HOW COULD I BE WRONG ABOUT THIS? OR…” He dangled Stan by the shirt like a ragdoll and tutted. “ARE YOU NOT AS SMART AS YOU SAY YOU ARE?”

“Gah - Ford -” Stan grunted out. His shirt collar dug deep into his neck.

“I - well, I know what you have shown me, Bill, but that doesn’t -” Ford stuttered, shame a sudden and heavy weight on his shoulders. “I mean, I don’t…”

“IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO QUIT NOW, DOES IT?” Bill tossed Stan up and grabbed him in his palm. “YOU’RE SO CLOSE TO SHOWING THE WORLD THAT YOU’RE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THEY PEGGED YOU TO BE! SOON YOUR ARBITRARY NUMBER OF HUMAN FINGERS WON’T MATTER. YOU’LL BE LAUDED FOR YOUR INTERDIMENSIONAL RESEARCH - I’VE SEEN IT, STANFORD.”

That look of defeat and inferiority should never be on Ford’s face. Ever. And the way Bill shut him down so fast, so effortlessly, like he’d done it before… Stan wriggled in Bill’s hand. “Damn, you’re really full of it, huh,” he spat. Fed up.

Ford cringed, like he was expecting a terrible consequence for what Stan had said.

“HAHA! AND HOW!” Bill laughed, gesturing with his free hand. “SERIOUSLY, THOUGH, I DON’T SEE IT. I’M JUST STATING A FACT HERE. I’M THE MISSING PIECE TO YOUR LIFE’S WORK, STANFORD. HOW ELSE COULD YOU REACH THE LEVEL OF SUCCESS WE’VE BOTH DREAMED OF?”

“He already said that he doesn’t need you!” Stan shouted. He tried to squirm out of Bill’s hand to no avail. His brass knuckles disappeared at some point, and he couldn’t bring them back no matter how hard the need to protect gnawed deeply at him. The peaceful vacuum of space around them was turning even colder, darker, twisting into something more frightening. “Ford! You know that he’s lying! He’s just fuckin’ with your head. Do what you know is the right thing to do!”

Full to choking with desperate fear, Stan watched on.

“Stan!” A cracking heartbreak played out in Ford’s shout. “I - what if Bill’s right! What if I don’t do something huge, and I don’t prove anything, and I just… fade out, like the death of a star?!”

What!? “That doesn’t fucking matter, Ford.” Stan struggled unsuccessfully. “Because guess what? I still love you! And the people that matter still care about what you do! So what if you don’t literally change the entire world? Who gives a shit - _dad?_ I know I don’t care. You got worth, Ford, ‘cause you’re you.” The last word rang out like a gunshot in the silence. Bill’s fingers tightened around his abdomen. “Urk-”

“THIS IS VERY CUTE, BUT I THINK YOU’VE OVERSTAYED YOUR WELCOME, PINES NUMBER TWO.” Bill’s voice edged turbulent, unknown territory. He lifted Stan up with supernatural ease and lined his other hand up with Stan’s back, ready to flick him off into the neverending depths of space.

Ford swallowed thickly and clenched and unclenched his hands. He brought them to his face and dug his palms into his eyes. A frustrated growl escaped him - his hands then flew to his sides in aggressive fists. “Stan is right!” He burst. “I don’t need your approval, Bill. I never did and I never will. If I can’t confidently end our partnership without fear of getting hurt, it was never a good partnership at all, and you can never convince me otherwise.”

With every word, Stan felt his resistance grow stronger. The hand holding him up grabbed him with all fingers, but it wasn’t as restrictive or suffocating as it had been. He could feel his squirming and struggling beginning to push back at Bill’s hand.

“I was blind to your true nature, but Stan helped me begin to see it. This little conversation we just had has confirmed it tenfold.” It was difficult for Ford to get the words out, but he pushed through admirably. “You might have wanted a portal - for what purpose, I might never truly know. But I don’t need to do that for you. I don’t need to work for you. I will work for myself and make my own discoveries, and they will be just as worthy as anything I would have uncovered with the slimy likes of you.”

The last angry sentence released Stan completely. He willed himself out of Bill’s grasp and it worked. Giddy, Stan floated backwards from Bill. “Ha! Suck it!” He threw up two middle fingers at the eldritch tap-dancer-lookin’ horror. Immediately, he felt his beloved brass knuckles materialize cold and real across his hands, just as he had wanted this whole time. He was itchin’ to punch this bastard.

Bill flared a furious red. “NO! THIS ISN’T HOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO GO!” His gigantic pupil focused on Stanley. “YOU. IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU…”

Stan tightened his grip on his weapons, then felt a presence beside him. He turned to look. It was Ford floating along nearby, looking momentarily shocked that he was able to propel himself upwards.

“I can… I can do anything I want here, Bill,” Ford realized. “It’s my mindscape. And you tried to take that control away from me. Well, guess what?” A flash of light, and six-fingered knuckle dusters of his own adorned both his hands. “I just remembered that this is my mind. And I won’t forget!”

“Yeah, sixer!” Stan cheered, throwing one fist in the air.

“YOU TWO…” Bill grew larger and redder, heat rolling off him in waves. “CAN’T YOU SEE THAT STANLEY IS JUST DRAGGING YOU DOWN? WHAT ABOUT YOUR POTENTIAL?”

Verbal punches like that would usually knock Stan down nowadays, but not anymore. Not from this sad excuse for a muse. He felt protected. He felt safe.

Ford shook his head. “You can’t convince me of that. I’m not letting you in here anymore, Bill. It’s time for you to leave.” He glanced at Stan with a lopsided smile. “Anyone who insults my brother and I, they do not deserve to have so much control over my mind.”

It wasn’t raining in space. Stan was just holding back happy tears - and for once he’d admit it. “You don’t have a say in this realm anymore, fuckface!”

Bill blinked once, slowly, wetly. “I MAY NOT HAVE A FOOTHOLD IN YOUR MIND, FORDSY, BUT I CAN STILL CHANGE THE PHYSICAL WORLD. I CAN FIND ANOTHER GENIUS. IF YOU GIVE THIS UP, I WILL FIND A HUMAN WHO’S ACTUALLY WORTHY. I CAN ENTER OTHERS’ DREAMS. I CAN POSSESS HUMANS WITH A SIMPLE DEAL!”

Ford remained calm. “Well, I’m never letting you do that to me.”

“If you ever come back here, in some poor guy’s body or otherwise, you know what’ll be waitin’ for ya.” Stan lifted up his armored knuckles. “Ready, Ford?”

“Absolutely, Stanley.”

Bill squinted. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING.”

The twins wound up their good punching arms.

“WHAT!? YOU’LL REGRET THIS!”

Two enthusiastic swings mirrored each other. They sunk squarely into Bill’s one big eye.

The world began to unform, then. Material unwrapped itself and stars packed away into some unseen corner of the sky. Stan and Ford began to descend back down to the tiny incomprehensible speck that was Earth. They gave each other contented smiles.

Whiteness blotted away the field of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bit of a doozy to write, I also had some problems with the date updating correctly and had to reupload?? hope it's alright!!


	12. Chapter 12

“-dord? Stanley?” Came a muffled voice.

Stan slowly blinked his way to consciousness. His mouth tasted like dreams. There was something warm on his face. “Gah, Ford, get your hand offa me."

"Guh?" Was Ford's dignified response. Still half-asleep.

"Oh good, you're both awake,” Fiddleford said from… somewhere. Stan was currently staring at the kitchen ceiling, which didn't tell him much.

Stan sat up, letting gravity take care of Ford's hand for him. It fell onto Ford's left cheek with a slap. "Hey." Stan shook him. "Naptime over, sleeping beauty."

Ford groaned. "Stop touching me." He slowly forced himself up, blinking at nothing and scrambling for his glasses. "Hmm." He found them beside him on the floor and pushed them onto his face. "That was quite… eventful." And a pleased smile bloomed.

“Hell yeah, it was. We punched him to bits, Ford. _To bits_!” He shook Ford’s shoulder. “See? There ain’t nothin’ the Pines twins can’t do.”

"Jesus Criminy,” someone interrupted. “I was so _worried_ about you two!"

Both of the Pines men finally saw Fiddleford. The man was haloed by the kitchen lightbulb, pajama legs rumpled and one foot holding most of his weight. His thin, dexterous hands balled into angry fists. He looked like he was about to condemn everyone around him for being utterly stupid.

“So you accidentally _swapped bodies_ on the account that Stanford, you’re just the right sort of absentminded to leave a highly dangerous _scientific experiment_ lying around -” Fiddleford hastily pushed his glasses up his nose and continued gesturing wildly. “And I could handle that. But then I learn that you, Stanley, have just enough loose screws to follow your brother into his _mind_ to fight a demon?!” His chest heaved up and down with the exertion of his outburst. As suddenly as he had started, though, he stopped, shoulders sloping away from his ears. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just got a lil’ frightened, is all, ‘cause while y’all were sleepin’, you both started havin’ fits, an’ nothin’ I did could wake you up. I was about to actually hop on in there myself.”

Stan and Ford were momentarily stunned into silence.

Ford cautiously raised his hand. “...What kind of fits do you mean? Ow! Stanley!” He flinched from the elbow that shoved harshly into his ribs.

“I don’t think now’s the time, knucklehead,” Stan stage-whispered.

Ford looked sheepish. “Ah. Right.” He peeled the sleeping bag back - it had somehow become mostly unzipped during their excursion - and stood, making himself look an anxious Fiddleford in the eye. “I’m… sorry, Fiddleford. We didn’t mean to worry you.” He rubbed his neck self-consciously. “It seems we both get a little carried away at times.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” The tension in Fiddleford’s face unknotted, if even just slightly. “Come down to Earth, why don’t y’all.”

Something about that turn of phrase smacked of peak comedy. Stan laughed a big, wheezing laugh, like Fiddleford had just made a hilarious joke. He lifted his aching self upright to stand - hardwood was never kind to his fucked-up body. “Down to Earth! Haha!” It was just… _funny_ , in a way that highly depended on the context of the night’s dreams to make any sort of sense.

Fiddleford’s brow furrowed at him. “What’re you on about, Pines?”

Ford just rested a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I think I should fill you in on everything.” He squinted in the general direction of the ticking wall clock. “Although, it seems to be three in the morning…”

Regardless, Fiddleford immediately collapsed in a kitchen chair. “No worries, Stanford, I just wanna hear it. We haven’t _really_ talked in quite a while, I’d say.”

Tentatively, Ford sat down beside him. His chair creaked. “Are you sure? What about Emma-May?”

“I’ll call her tomorrow. I never set a solid date on this lil’ venture. I’m self-employed, after all, so no problems with deadlines.”

Stan meandered over to the coffee machine and busied himself with it. It was… he could say _fulfilling_ to watch his brother interact so easily with someone that wasn’t, well, himself. It hadn’t always been that way. And anyways, Stan hadn’t heard this about Ford’s old roomie before. “The hell kinda entrepreneurship do you do that doesn’t involve a mob chasing you outta town with pitchforks?”

"Um."

“Well, it happens to _me_ pretty often," Stan mumbled into the coffee filters.

Fiddleford seemed to hold a fair measure of confusion and a surprisingly small measure of judgement. “Well… I’m workin’ on making personal computers, right now, outta my garage in Palo Alto.”

Ford paused. “I’m sorry, you’re making what?”

Fidds shook his head. “I’ll tell y’all later.” He fixed Ford with a determined gaze. “Stanford, spill.”

“I’ll pour you two some coffee,” Stan decided. This might take a while.

* * *

“Hey, Stan. Um. We need to talk.”

There were a lot of ways that particular sequence of words could pan out.

Ford was at the doorway, so automatically, Stan stretched and rolled out of bed. The analog clock on the wall read three in the afternoon. Wow, he was out for a while - to be expected after last night, really. After Ford explained the true depths of Gravity Falls’ weirdness and thoroughly spooked Fiddleford (and Stan too if he was being honest), everyone went off to bed. And it was just sweet dreamless sleep, no geometry in sight.

Stan dusted off an imagined speck from his sleep-rumpled shirt. “What’s, uh, what’s up? Did you sleep okay?”

Ford looked nervous, and that made Stan nervous. Was this about last night? About Stan? Did Bill ‘visit’ him again? Or was it something else? Maybe Stan was gross and annoying and Ford was about to ask him to -

“Yes, sleep was fine.” Ford fiddled with his hands, tugging at his extra fingers. “Bill won’t try coming back anytime soon, I hope. But… actually, I’ll just show you. Come with me.”

Anxiety gluing his mouth shut, Stan followed his brother into the office. Ford made an immediate beeline to the back of the room, hidden behind books and scrolls. A large lump-shaped tarp rested there.

“Uh, Sixer, what is this about?” Stan kept his face neutral. The plain gray tarp was impassive and untelling. Tarps covering large objects was sort of worrying, in his experience.

Ford sighed. "This." He reached down, grasped the tarp, and pulled it away with disruptive loud crinkling. Beneath it was a rug - a bright blue one, with yellow details. It was _the_ rug. Rolled up and sad, it looked kind of like an inedible swiss roll.

Why did Ford still have this?”

“Wha - I thought you had gotten rid of this dumb thing! Why the hell is it still here?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about.” Ford threw the tarp back and it collapsed onto the rug, hiding the carpet’s ugliness again. Shame rolled off of Ford in waves. “Please, Stan, hear me out?”

Okay. Stan could do that.

Deep breaths.

He truly just wanted to help, even if he was mad. He didn’t want to get mad again. They both did enough of that for a lifetime.

“Okay, shoot.”

Ford smiled weakly, then looked back at the rug. “I told you I had destroyed it, but… I just couldn’t bring myself to. You had said to burn it, and that would have been just fine! But for some reason I was attached to how much work I had put into it. I didn’t want to get rid of it, much less burn it into nothing.” He shrugged. “I let my ego get in the way again, acting like this damn rug I made was more important than being honest. I shouldn’t have lied to you about it, Stanley. I’m… sorry.”

Emotions hit Stan in different waves, first anger at being lied to, then confusion at Ford’s motive, and _then_ confusion about how to handle any of that.

Stan felt a little smacked in the face. He didn’t realize how much he had been used to circular arguments and no admittance of wrongdoing in his family. It was how they and Shermie had grown up, and so it was how they had learned to deal with problems both in and outside their rickety old pawn shop. But here were Stan and Ford now, handling a conversation without tossing it back and forth like it was an unstable bomb. Sure, they had started to make up, but Stan was half-expecting some other issue to level a rift between them.

Fear had been unknowingly coiling in Stan’s gut since Ford told him they needed to talk. It was such a familiar feeling about any sort of confrontation, a shortcut to trigger Stan’s defenses. Now, though, it unwound like a placated snake and went away.

Stan forced his mouth to move. “Thanks for the apology. Seriously.” Keeping calm, he asked, “Why couldn’t ya burn it?”

Ford looked surprised. “Well, I just -” he stuttered. “I was proud of it. Maybe I shouldn’t have been - it was a bit close to mad science, even for me. But I was excited at its success. I valued that highly. And burning it to ashes would destroy any - any _tangible_ evidence of that,” Ford finished quietly.

“Okay, I think I get it,” Stan nodded along, a furrow in his brow. “You didn’t actually wanna destroy it. Why didn’t you just say so, then?”

Frustrated - about what, Stan wasn’t sure - Ford shrugged sharply. “I _do_ want to get rid of it!”

“But you just said -”

“I know!” Ford slumped. “I know what I said. But I actually did want to rid the world of this thing - at least for now. Clearly I wasn’t being responsible enough with it… as with many other things.” He wilted. “But when I tried to dispose of it, I felt…” He tried to pluck the words out of the air, but they wouldn’t come.

“Bad?” Stan suggested.

“No, uh -”

“Shitty?” That was just the same descriptor again, but Stan was trying, damn it.

“I’m sure there are better words out there, but I… hm.” Ford’s left hand rested on his own cheek. "I don't have much experience describing my… _feelings_.” He inhaled deeply. “I… felt like I would lose a piece of myself.”

“Oh. So, bad.”

“...Yes, Stanley. That would fall under a ‘bad’ feeling.”

“But -” Stan folded his arms and eyed the ominous lump of fabric hiding under the tarp. “The rug ain’t _you._ The shit you make, the creepy stuff you find in the woods, that’s not _who_ you are.”

Exasperation expressed itself through Ford’s outstretched arms. “Then who am I?!”

The question rang out like a gunshot.

What kind of question was that?

“I dunno, Ford!” He mirrored Ford with hands thrown upwards. “You’re whoever you wanna be. And you’re my brother. I know you love this stuff -” he gestured to the dedicated piles upon piles of notes and books strewn about the office - “but it doesn’t define you. No matter what Bill said, or what our parents said. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Blinking rapidly, Ford just stared at his brother. His arms fell lamely to his sides.

“So you don’t need the rug, or any of the stuff in this room, to uphold your worth. Okay? Hell, the whole house could go up in flames and take every little thing with it, your journal, _everything_ , and you would still be someone I’d be proud to call my brother.” Stan lowered his arms, keeping them open. He couldn’t believe he was voluntarily going to do this. Or, after the events of these past weeks, maybe he could. “H-hug?” He muttered.

Ford tentatively smiled. He took up the offer, collapsing against his brother. “Thanks, Stan. I… I think I needed to hear that.”

There used to be a cabinet in their living room full of medals and gold. It was impressive, really, how much their parents could fit in that rickety old thing. Ford was an exceptional child. Stan used to be pretty mad at it because he could never live up to what it represented. Now he was surprised to be mad at it for a completely different reason.

Maybe their parents should’ve given praise for something other than good homework assignments. And maybe Stan was actually right to be angry with them. After all, they had managed to mess up both of their kids in entirely different ways. Come on, they had not one, but two shots at _not_ doing that.

Stan should call Shermie later and see how he’s doing.

“Of course. I mean it.” Stan wavered, holding his brother in his arms. “You okay?”

Ford pulled back, looking to be on the verge of tears but managing to hold it in. “Yes. I think so.” He looked down at the tarp. “Want to give this thing a proper sendoff?”

A wide smile broke on Stan’s face. “You know I do.”

* * *

They waited until later at night, when the stars barely began to dot the sky.

Stan had called out to Fiddleford to ask if he wanted to watch stuff burn with them, and Fidds had shot up with an almost scary amount of enthusiasm, slamming his two briefcases shut and putting his travel prep on pause. “I always have time for a nice fire,” Fiddleford had said, without even asking what they were going to burn. Remind Stan to never get on his bad side.

Stan tried to entertain the idea of carrying the rug by himself, even though it weighed roughly the same as a large bag of rocks, but he quickly conceded when Ford just rolled his eyes and picked up the other end. Together, they carried it outside and dropped it to the ground in the middle of Ford’s backyard, sending dirt and small stones flying. Behind them, Fiddleford had brought some firewood.

A large homemade fire pit of sorts sat beside the rug, the center ashened and blackened. Rough stones and bricks formed walls that suggested a circle, though some stones had fallen down and broken. Ford lightly kicked at the remaining structure with his foot. It stubbornly did not budge. “This still looks good to use,” Ford said. “I put this together when I was in my pyromancy phase.” He made a face like he had just shown someone an awkward, pimpled picture of his teenage self, and then dropped some tinder into the pit.

Without any hesitation, Fiddleford walked up and dumped the cut-down logs into the center of the pit as well. “I’ll grab the chairs!” He ran off to the porch.

Ford stared into the cold, unlit ring of stone. “Hmm. I used to know a simple fire spell. It’s been a while, though…”

Stan cleared his throat. For how smart Ford was, he could really be stupid when he wanted to be. “You know you don’t gotta do magic to make fire, right, nerd?” He leaned down and fished his trusty lighter out of his pocket. With a click, the tiny flame sprouted out, and he brought it to the tinder. It caught immediately and began licking at the wood above it. Stan watched thin tendrils of smoke spiral up from the young fire and looked up at Ford with an amused half-smile.

Ford just smacked a hand against his own face. “Yeesh. Don’t tell Fiddleford about that. He watched me earn 12 PhDs. I don’t want him to know how much of a sham I am.” Despite the sheepish blush climbing his cheeks, Ford was laughing to himself. “Forgetting about lighters. Christ!”

Soon, Stan was laughing too.

Fiddleford waddled over with three gently-used armchairs in his arms. He set them up around the fire.

“They were housewarming gifts from the Corduroy family. They didn’t really get that I’m not one to sit on my porch that often,” Ford said. Now that Stan thought about it, the pastel-blue plastic leisure chairs weren’t something he could imagine Ford picking up for himself in the grocery store.

By now, the sky was dusking. Solid pinpricks of light stood out high above the trees. Closer to the treeline, the last of the day’s sunlight was bleeding away. Silently, Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford cut the rug into three smaller sections - Stan had his own knife, and Ford and Fidds found industrial-grade science-y shears somewhere - making sure to be far away from each other in case static was accidentally rubbed into existence. They tossed the scraps into the fire pit.

It would take some time for the rug to completely burn, for the weft to blacken and the fire to completely eat away the plush of the rug.

“This _is_ safe, right, Stanford?” Fiddleford asked. At some point he had popped open a Pitt Cola. Now he was calm and relaxed in one of the chairs.

“Oh, of course,” Ford handwaved. “The swapping properties aren’t due to any chemicals in the fabric. It might release some static electricity into the air, but that’s all.”

“You sure? No poisonous yarn on that thing?” Stan joked. He leaned back in his seat and wondered if there were any Colas left in the house, but the fire in front of him was too warm and inviting.

“Ah… hmm.” Ford looked thoughtful as he settled into his own chair. “No, I… I don’t _think_ the town supermarket would sell deadly wool.”

It was such a Ford thing to say. Stan barked out a laugh. “Ha! I hope not.”

“Stanford, you _would_ be the one to end up buyin’ evil toxic carpet at some tiny ol’ town in the middle of nowhere,” Fiddleford said into his can of soda.

“Right?” Stan agreed. “What a Ford move!”

Indignant, Ford huffed, “I will have you know that I only made such a mistake once. Once! And the store gave me a refund for the haunted silverware they had sold me, so it wasn’t even a loss.”

That forced a cackle out of Stan. He had missed this. Really, really missed this.

For the first time in his adult life, Stan saw a future where he wasn't just surviving, but _thriving_. A future where his home wasn't moving every few months; where his life actually felt occupied by the living. He saw people who liked him and loved him. He saw security and support and maybe even a savings account, which would be nice.

Maybe Rico would try to get him. Maybe Bill would try to get Ford. But this time, they had each other.

And they might fight. They might have problems. But they won’t let go of each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me when i first started therapy: "i feel crappy"   
> therapist: "crappy how"  
> me: "um. bad"
> 
> thank you SO SO much for reading this. i've learned a lot about writing by trying my hand at uploading a chaptered story that i hadn't completed beforehand. it has been an absolute pleasure to write this and be able to share it with you lovely people. there's just an epilogue left. i hope you all have enjoyed this<3333


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